pink, he is clothed in petals

sweet-smelling cherry blossoms

lingering in the space where the sun touches the earth

at the horizon.

he lives in the sunset

his bare feet softly touching the ground

the bare ground

raw and fresh

wet soil and wet leaves and

wet petals sprinkled.

pink, she loves herself.

she wears long flowing dresses and braids her hair with

flowers.

she works hard

too hard, maybe

maybe she just wants to be seen.

pink, she is

loud and quiet and everything at once,

pink,

she is the world.

she walks on the edge of the water

longing to once again belong to its frigid depths

staring up that the sky that edges on darkness

a home of hers

one of many

she cries for reasons that are sad and not

drowning in the fabric of elaborate dresses and cloaks

hiding her face with crumpled hands

she is made of paper but she will last forever

she wants to be a butterly but relates more to a moth

fragile and dull

a heart of stone and a soul of glass

eyes clouded with visions

of places that are above and below

Flames rise high

Red paints the horizon

Madness overwhelms the strokes

Flicking away at the sky

With crazed eyes bleeding crimson

With rage thinly veiled

The devil draws at the sky

Violently reveling in the thrill

His tongue lashes out, long and thin

Acid drips from his mouth lips upturned into a grin

Pale yellow teeth glisten in the heat

As the smell of charred meat

Wafts from his scaly skin

Wild fire burns in his eyes

Every inch of his body defiles

His days of disguise

Are over and all that lies before him

Is a torturous demise.

Every page of her planner is full to the margins.

Her friends grow to expect her handwritten letters

She laughs loudly,

lipstick stains her teeth

The life of the party and the death of her mother

Unashamed nightly cosmopolitans

She stays up late and wakes up early,

eager to experience life.

She hides in the back of the class,

Long hair naturally dark as the night sky,

Black as the deep hours of midnight.

It's all she wears, too.

Black jeans, black shirt, black socks and boots.

Black earrings and onyx on a black string around her neck.

Occasionally, you'll catch her wearing grey,

But that's only when

She hasn't done laundry in three weeks

And her black clothing has run out.

She has a black cat

That lives in her apartment.

Her name is Onyx Black,

And she lives up to it,

A shining gemstone

As dark as her sad, wise eyes.

they pass her by

she's heard it a million times

they say

she's the absence of light

it's not true, it's not right

it’s a lie

they all live inside

of her

she keeps them

it gets overwhelming sometimes

but she would not dare

to let them out

to have people see

so she holds them

close to her heart

all her colors

they say

she's the absence of light

and as she doesn’t deny it

no one asks questions.

You reflect my darkest thoughts

You are me when I am down and out

I wish you anywhere but in my mind

Alas, woven in every nerve of my brain, black is what you will find

the disturbance spreads,

and ripples away,

as the fatso paddles,

alone, during the lunch break,

in vain attempts,

to lose all that marbling.

the green of chlorine,

can not be seen,

but it fails to hide,

a hint, lingering,

of the morning swimming class.

the skyness of the retaining walls,

and the beige of the ceramic tiles,

marking the lanes,

and the fatso’s blue trunks,

and pink skin,

he’s the only one that sees my color,

though his goggles fog up, the idiot,

he’ll give up soon, they all do.

She plays in the waves,

her blue eyes sparkling with wiseness beyond her years.

Her laugh rings out,

true and clear.

I can't help but watch as the sun hits her back,

making everything about her, though I am no worshipper, devout.

Cerulean, cerulean, cerulean. The owner of the sky and sea.

Imagine that everyone constantly thinks about how little you fit in. My defining characteristic is my inability to match something; another word, that is. I am both admired and faulted for my name, my name that carries no resemblance to any other word, no matter how much it's twisted around. "Oh-range...homage?" Sigh.

I make people uncomfortable. My name's refusal to play twinsies with other terms in the vernacular notwithstanding, my appearance is bold. Loud. Of the brights, yellow gets a bit more attention. She's cheerful; she reminds people of the sun. Of butter and gold and optimism. Me, I'm yellow with a rebellious streak of red; I carry more of a threatening fire. And so I divide people; I'm one of those "love or hate" scenarios. For those who love me, I'm their fave. For those who don't, they would stack all the other colours over me.

Still, I don't mind, so much. Just because I notice this mixed reaction doesn't mean that I let it wound me. I appreciate what I am. I take pride in my versatility. I'm in the softness of nature, the most delicate petal or monarch's wing. I'm the crisp, daring exterior of my namesake fruit. I'm artistic as a sunset, shocking as a traffic cone. I'm on the surface of autumn leaves and in the wax of crayons. I understand that the reason some people dislike me is the same reason people like me: I don't look or sound like anything else. I'm a reminder to be unapologetically you.

#orange #writing #beyourself