synesthesia

orange

You say that I'll never write about him the same way you did, that I'll never paint him the way you used to. 

And that's okay.

I'm going to forge this from shades you never got to see because you were too selfish and unkind to try and let things bloom how they should be, you were there with the shears to snip away any sense of love you didn't want to see.

DON'T BE A PUSSY

BOYS DON'T CRY

I'm going to smear this canvas with shades of gold and sunsets, with held hands and clumsy encounters, with comfort and warmth instead of anger and sharp edges, and whether you decide to view as art is on your shoulders.You want his happiness, even now six months later but actions speak louder than words, and I'm too exhausted to try and stifle strikes that come my way. 

So go ahead, claim that I'm not an artist, and watch me prove you wrong.

-

I remember sitting at the table between the two of you, of you mentioning how he made you move.

The time you cornered me in the car and told me in vivid detail the ways you touched and ignited nerves that I never wanted to know.

I hated you, I cried, I felt sick. I hate that I want to trust you; I told you early on "my friends come first," but what kind of friend are you? How can you look me in the eye?