Blue flowers bloom inside my stomach.
They twirl and twist inside my intestines but I'm not sure that they provide the nutrients your touch did.
It feels more as though they are stripping me of any vital I had left in me.
And I have a notion you planted them there.
Because although they are beautiful they hurt, just as you.
And although they are not here to stay, they live inside me, just as you.
I feel they have been illuminated and it burns as they make their way to my chest and press against my bones.
I think your words provoke them, so please stop saying you need me to stay.
Because if I do they will force themselves through me and I'm not sure if I can subsist as they cover me.
My veins turn purple, I think I've aged in these last four seconds that they've pushed through my white blue skin.
Or, maybe, I've took in too much sunshine to never feel this gut-wrenching, searing, take another hit type of pain.
But how many times a day do I need to brush my teeth so my words won't rot.
Wash every sadistic statement down with water to refresh those flowers.
Purify my put forward presence so I don't have to perceive the guilt of blue.
Blue,
no,
my skin should not be blue.
But skin is not just skin,
skin is a land,
a fortress,
memories built on top of goose bumps,
signs indicated from the inside.
Blue,
no,
my skin should not be blue.
The golden hour is coming,
maybe then I will allure you.
No,
blue flowers should not bloom bright red.
