Punch-Drunk Blues

Her cracked fingernails

Are now covered in a fresh varnish

That shimmers

Like a clouded jewel freshly polished.


Her bloodied lips

Are painted a mild red

That covers the scabs and cuts and blends into the ruby dribbles

But its pinkish rose feels like acrid green poison.

Her dark eyes

Are accented with strokes of a brush

That leave sickly compliments behind

But never raise fists into her vision.


Her bruised knuckles

Are treated worst of all

They bind them in rings

And chain them up in thick powders

That rise in plumes from her hands

And threaten to choke her for her disobedience.


She stands in her new dress

Tailored to make her into a mannequin

The mirror’s mahogany edging

Is as shiny as her shoes that pinch

There are cobalt streaks and amethyst purples

Lying placid on her eyelids

Pink roses have been 

Shoved onto her cheeks until

The thorns cut her lips that perfect red

Her dress cries its deep blue

Its silk drops to the floor in tears

Her nails reflect the same

All the color is there upon her,

But none of it is shining through. 


She rubs at her hands,

Smearing that thick powder

Staining her knuckles

Until the bruises 

Peak through the mask.

They’re a beautiful cloud

Of plum flowers,

Electric yellows that shimmer against her skin

Baby blues that hum familiar tunes

Pale greens that remind of spring days

Darkened blues that whisper sweet words

And soft browns that comfort and warm.

They shine

Oh so bright. 

And are the last reminder of what lies beneath.


This poem is about: 
My country
Our world


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