today she is a girl.
i love her just the same, but she does not love me.
she was a brief happiness, a passing dove that just so happened to stop for a second to glance at the flightless bird staring in awe.
perhaps, i thought, her colours would stay.
no, the world says, and the brushes begin to paint over my angel.
they paint the shade of my barren arms, grasping to hold onto the cold burn of her love. but all they find is the burnt feathers, no longer soft.
she was sweet, sugar. her absence leaves the taste on my tongue bitter.
i must have been too warm, melted her already frail heart in my hands like a flame to snow.
now my canvas is blood stained, coated with the remnants of our time.
we never had enough time.
YOU ARE READING
the song we used to sing
Historia Cortathey think of the world as a picture. pretty and whole. it has flaws, and sometimes the mistakes fit in the whole scheme of things. but an error like them has to be painted over. the story of a pansexual boy and his genderfluid partner.
