when a tired blue boy walks down constance avenue, you've got to make sure you're red enough for him to create a purple with you. too much of his tiredness and too less of your anger doesn't mix, creating imbalances and headaches and grief.
tired blue boy knows a lot about me; we walk together every tuesday and lay by each other every night. i delve in my problems and he agrees, providing the blanket of insecurity i never needed. ushers fall from his sweet lips that almost console me, but bear me to the truth instead. his hands fit around my wrists like puzzle pieces and the void above his head has enough space to fit me.
our tears create rivers where we walk and the sighs that ensue from our fused bodies create thunderstorms–tired blue boy knows this well enough to leave me alone when i turn orange.
"is it really worth it?" he asked one day. our hands were clasped together, our legs cross legged. his eyes were sad and distant and my heart stopped when i gazed into them too long.
"no." my hands loosened, and soon my atoms became blue boy's and his tiredness was mine.
we were too far apart and now we are too close. tired blue boy is no longer the boy walking down constance street and i am no longer the red girl. now, we do not exist; we have no atoms to share and no purples to create.
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grammar is off in here but it's intentional so
(inspired by pacify her - melanie martinez)
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paraphernalia
Poetrypretentious poetry. FOREWARNING: this was written over three years. my style changes dramatically, as does everything else. quality of pieces varies.
