Hues of Bleu

On paper, I was perfect. The perfect blue.

The perfect Bleu.

To them, I should be perfect. But I knew I wasn't. I wasn't the shade they truly wanted me to be. Never the right pigment, always the wrong hue.

Not. So. Perfect. Emory Bleu.

I hate it. Being it, feeling it. Nobody understands what being me means. Bleu-it's a family name. My father was a perfect shade of blue, like cobalt, royal, and midnight. He'd never say it but it disappointed him that I was just plain old... Emory Bleu. The problems of the world I could solve in an equation, but never my own. It wasn't as simple as an equation, too many uncontrollable variables. But if I could, I would roll up the cheap paper canvas that painted this image of me as "the perfect blue", I'd stick it in a bottle filled with long aged cognac.

There was only one person that could ruin me and mend me. With his shameless arrogance and enigmatic tendencies. Judas made his own chaotic masterpiece of me, with whimsical shades of blue. With him, I wasn't this perfect Bleu, he had a way of making deeper tones bleed through. There were imperfections, scraps, and forgotten pieces tethered to this version. A revision. Emory Bleu-An immersive masterpiece. Finally, the becoming of me. And unbecoming, too.