honeysuckles and mommy issues for supper, dainty daisies in his caramel-dipped locks, and skipping that ugly town on four-wheeled bicycles with olivia. olivia was the only friend he ever made. she was unquestionably identical to the almond-freckled doll on his bedside table.
olivia, the seashell syllabled name that effortlessly rolled down his skittles-tainted tongue. olivia was not the type of girl boys would call pretty. no, olivia was a remorseless rebel with her disheveled locks and american dirt under her chipped nails.
olivia hated funerals; the idea of placing flowers to make death beautiful seemed absurd for her little mind. she'd always reckoned death was much prepossessing than any flower god could ever fabricate. oh yes, little olivia loved her god. with that hijab she'd wear five times a day and a mere modesty not everyone picked up on- olivia was also graceful.
but now he had forgotten how when the setting suns canoodled olivia's golden skin at just the right angles- she could be pretty, or how she used to get so provoked when he bantered her eyes were anything but a lovely brown.
it felt as though the reminiscences of his vivid childhood were melting against the sweltering heat from the incessant storms brewing in his vandalized mind. he needed to hold on to a cherishable memory before they all abandon him as his mama did on his seventh birthday.
crack a façade dipped smile, with flamingo hopes that he won't misplace himself wholly.
chuckle airily, perhaps the peony palpitations in his blood-lingering throat would cease to stand his ground.
scraped knees and a slight ups-a-daisy; the devil is not as black as she's painted.
YOU ARE READING
guava achings ✓
Poetrybanquets of succulent peaches in tin cans and pretty boys with passionflowers blossoming from their cuticles.
