Pretty boy in blue.
I grin at the sight of him.
loving the way his hair falls against his shoulders and bounces up with a soft curl.
I love his intense eyes. Such a pretty blue. Matching his baggy sweater.
He asks me to paint his face and I do.
Tilting his head. Admiring his jaw and his rosy cheeks and his long lashes.
Pretty boy in blue looks at his reflection and smiles.
I feel that steady ache return.
I am not the pretty boy in blue.
Instead I am yellow or maybe pink or green.
Still pretty. Still a boy.
Just not in the right way.
Not in the blue way.
Pretty boys in blue get to have their cake and eat it too.
Yellow boy has to scream that he is still a boy even dressed in yellow. Even in pink.
Pink boy has to hesitate when telling the world that he's a boy.
Green boy gets sick when people say his name in that questioning tone.
When they laugh or they snicker or they taunt.
Yellow boy? Pink boy? Green boy?
No. No. No.
A boy is blue. Even a pretty blue boy. Even one with a painted face and flowing skirt.
Yellow boys can't have painted faces. Pink boys can't giggle or dance with their hips. Green boys aren't really boys.
Blue boy. Blue boy. Blue boy.
I am made of colour.
I only wish one of them was blue.
YOU ARE READING
The diary of Seth Alexander
Kurgu Olmayanas the title suggests, this is legit going to be my diary. and yes, most diaries are supposed to be secret, but I have always been an open book. I like to pretend to be mysterious, but the people around me will all tell you that I am am someone who...
