My therapist tells me to stop thinking in black and white.

But I can’t help only seeing

right or wrong

I come from hard earth and clay walls.

I come from early Sunday mornings-

the smell of myrrh and frankincense clouding my eyes.

I come from the mango trees that did not belong to me,

But still scaled up high to escape a life that was not mine.

I am not a rose.

I am not a ravishing ruby red,

or even a semblance of purity white.