Blue.
When your 4th grade teacher
Asks what your preferred color is,
You say blue.
Azure skies,
And superman in tights.
And because little boys
Like blue.
Cerulean.
Violets that sway in the summertime,
From the rainbow.
It's true.
In sixth year, your math teacher
Asks you to draw your room for scale.
For math.
And because it's fun.
And because your math teacher doesn't know
That your walls are covered
In teal stained self hate,
In pictures with your
Face smudged.
In turquoise razors that you don't use
To shave your legs.
In the jeans you use
To cover up.
Your math teacher doesn't want to know.
When you're in eight grade,
Your teacher shifts her gaze.
She does not ask
What your preferred anything is.
She's afraid.
Blue.
Your favorite color is blue.
Because boys like blue.
They'd rather see the sky
Than see you.
But you're the brightest fucking star,
And it will be millennia
Before you're though.
So burn blue,
Brighter than Cyan-
nide
Kill them with their first taste
Of what it's like to be you.
To be blue.
Cause that's what little boys do.
YOU ARE READING
Poems
PoetryThis is a poetry book made from people who request to put their own poems in here to any poem I find online. It is made for people to share and express their thoughts and emotions. *NONE OF THESE POEMS BELONG TO ME* (REQUESTS ARE CLOSE)
