Your voice is green-- You spit venom formulated between your lips. Sour with anger, tinged with sweetness. Lacing around loving words your tongue clicks against your teeth, cracking calcium, healing superficial wounds, generating craters. It wavers. Signifying some sort of depth, leaving more questions in it’s wake. Hisses of “I miss you” and “Go away” it’s kerosine to my ears.
Your brain is yellow -- Your mind a mush of oversaturated thoughts, overshot conversations brew and steam, boiling tissue. But, flowers thrive where the vines loosen their hold. Impressions left deep but scabbed over with time. There is no fight. Ambitions thrive, gripping onto dreams of better times. Your time is running, you’re running out of time, you’re running out of thoughts.
Your hands are orange -- Tapping. Patience wears through your bones. Holding onto promises. Be honest how you wait to have your hands filled with the scolding sweet feeling of skin on skin. Blood surges through your fingertips, filling your hands with strength. But, it’s not enough. It’s never been enough. Bruised knuckles missed with caramel skin, your anger shows in your fingerprints. Hands dragging against carpet, trying to grip onto a feeling other than your bruised knuckles.
Your eyes are red -- Ruby. They shine in the dark. A black ring adulterates their beauty, pulsing purple skin makes you dizzy. It’s hard to see from underneath the ice pack, trying desperately to bring your eyesight back. They exhibit such beauty in a world of unparalleled drowning. Water floods your sight, throat getting tight. But, your eyes keep counting, counting away the days it takes to feel whole again.
Your cheeks are blue -- Filled to the brim, innocence. You’re underestimated, they make you look so young but beneath the skin - years of decay chipping down. Why don’t you understand that you’re gritting your teeth, you’re grinding them down, down to the gum. Still, your cheeks are so beautiful. They invite kisses and warmth. A solace from the dark. Like pen on paper, digging into the grooves. Leaving a permanent mark.
Your legs are gray -- Giving out underneath your weight, they can only carry you so far. You’re running, you’re running but not from your mind. You’re running from their words. No. Your legs are purple.They keep you upright, balanced on nothing but the will to stay. To stay. Combining will with way. Planing you in your place like seeds, deep in the earth. You sprout tall but your legs are so weak, weak from running. Running from their words.
About the Creator
James V
hi i’m james!
i’m a mental health advocate, hardcore dog lover, queer boy and anxious mess. this is where i dump the stuff i think sounds good.
thanks for stopping by!
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