I used to be a spitfire red

Rained out by the oblivious, blank creativity in my peers idea of normal, softened into mints and baby blues.

I feel like a broken bone bleeding out melancholic pools of paint, colored by life.

Why can't I find the plug to my broken heart?

Swirls of strawberry, the mint chill you taste when you kiss life.

I strive to reach for greatness,

shortened by short support,

dripping pink obsinities. 

I am that electrifying tear streaming down a musicians face, his trembling, broken-souled fingers caressing his only love while his life spirals from its keys.

The echo of a painful smile quickly orphaned, adopted too quickly by lonliness and discombobulated history from behind my decieving eyes which have been blurred by fear.

How death is so final.

Detatched. Independent. Too cat-like. How dare you compare me to Barbie, box me into a label and shackle me to an alien language of conformity. Carving your words into my desked life, causing me to break down too easily while I pretend to stand tall.

I used to be a spitfire red, but my flames burnt out the day I gave up on trying,

and just started being.