it was only her fault that she didn't deal with the choking air she inhaled when she let a flower entangle her hair. between a lily and a marble, and a mattress of grass beneath her that she stomps on- it's just a bit of her dwelling. but it was her fault violet wasn't blue enough to end up on a valentines day card. perhaps she should have wondered what could have ever, ever, brushed up against her lips and distracted her.
she could only hopelessly fall to her knees, well past blueberry bushes and cry out for just a year or two, and push against the atmosphere that held her. after all, when she realized that domicile thoughts were no longer her thoughts she didn't laugh or react. she let the choking atmosphere clutch at her throat, pulling at the strand of beads that represented all the daisies there had been.
but she rested her head on limestone, breathing in what could be pollen from poppies. but her face was guarded by roses; she had gotten their shade of red correct. so she had to dust off the dirt that clung to her dress, and brushed the near tears off of her face only to pluck a violet.
and she stained her sky trying to darken the blue of violets so that the rose could also say to her "I love you." but no, there was a 'roses are red' but no 'violets are blue. 'and without those two the difference between a smile and a frown. she only stood on flint, carefully so that her steel like tears wouldn't spark it, or burn what roses she had that had been colored correctly. she nearly leaned over the water and cried because if the dandelions didn't turn yellow, and the lavender didn't stay purple then she would have to close her eyes and be ashamed that she was still trapped between a stone and a lily.
but she didn't ever touch the actual word love or taint it in pink or blue or red, and merely she let the word rest there. somewhere far beyond the marble, and far below the flint, somewhere where flowers didn't wind around your throat, and ivy wasn't your clothes. she let the word love rest there. and let it stay a color that it chose on its own.
YOU ARE READING
Part the World
Poetrythey called him a child and disordered for wanting to get out a series of poems meant to bridge the gap between the night sky and the blue ocean. from many people who have seen both and are hoping to change the entire world with words alone. they s...
