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Literature Text
(you told me that a person’s favourite colour was a reflection of their character.)
When I was young I loved that bright
shade of purple that glows with an
undertone of warm creamy pinks. My
grandfather would buy me ornaments
of fairies dressed in yellow tulip dresses,
cyan wings pressed into their shoulders
and I wanted to live in a kaleidoscope.
Home was warm, my walls light blue and
my favourite colour purple. Purple like my
laugh, purple like my mother’s high heels,
purple like the post-sunset sky.
When I grew older, I was washed out like
mixing watercolour paints. The men came and
went, taking the brightest shades with them,
sweeping swathes of foul red ink across every
canvas. And my favourite colour was lilac, soft
delicate quivering. It was the wisterias that would
listen to my empty pages, the pale dawn sky that
asked me to write while I was erased and swan-
feathered and half-dreaming of drowning in endless
cream seas. Lilac like my mother’s tired eyes, lilac
like my bedroom walls, lilac like my prom dress, lilac
like my torn worn-out veins.
Now, I have been sapped and sun-bleached by
thieving boys and colour-craving girls, I have been
diluted and made monochrome and now my favourite
colour is grey. It is the handbag that holds my secrets,
the bedsheets that hold my dreams, the home that holds
my mother thousands of miles away. Grey like the China
afternoons, grey like my ashen mouth, grey like the endless
filled pages of soaking ink. The more I write about prismatic
poesie people, the fewer hues I can hold in my open spilling
palms and now I am grey, the lingering shade of an author
painting every tone of heartbreak crimson and love-struck
lilting light green onto crystal skies and-
Maybe you were right. So baby, why’s your favourite colour
the raspberry of my lipstick, the scarlet of love-lust-loss,
when it clashes so badly with the orange of your sunrise
smile?
When I was young I loved that bright
shade of purple that glows with an
undertone of warm creamy pinks. My
grandfather would buy me ornaments
of fairies dressed in yellow tulip dresses,
cyan wings pressed into their shoulders
and I wanted to live in a kaleidoscope.
Home was warm, my walls light blue and
my favourite colour purple. Purple like my
laugh, purple like my mother’s high heels,
purple like the post-sunset sky.
When I grew older, I was washed out like
mixing watercolour paints. The men came and
went, taking the brightest shades with them,
sweeping swathes of foul red ink across every
canvas. And my favourite colour was lilac, soft
delicate quivering. It was the wisterias that would
listen to my empty pages, the pale dawn sky that
asked me to write while I was erased and swan-
feathered and half-dreaming of drowning in endless
cream seas. Lilac like my mother’s tired eyes, lilac
like my bedroom walls, lilac like my prom dress, lilac
like my torn worn-out veins.
Now, I have been sapped and sun-bleached by
thieving boys and colour-craving girls, I have been
diluted and made monochrome and now my favourite
colour is grey. It is the handbag that holds my secrets,
the bedsheets that hold my dreams, the home that holds
my mother thousands of miles away. Grey like the China
afternoons, grey like my ashen mouth, grey like the endless
filled pages of soaking ink. The more I write about prismatic
poesie people, the fewer hues I can hold in my open spilling
palms and now I am grey, the lingering shade of an author
painting every tone of heartbreak crimson and love-struck
lilting light green onto crystal skies and-
Maybe you were right. So baby, why’s your favourite colour
the raspberry of my lipstick, the scarlet of love-lust-loss,
when it clashes so badly with the orange of your sunrise
smile?
Literature
Winter's Child
Winter’s Child
An immaculate adolescent was born,
Under the chill frigid conditions,
Resting beneath ivory flakes.
Pure powder covering her tresses,
As her white iris
Are revealed to the Heavens,
And the vapors open;
The flurry continues above.
Tips of her finger, nestled in her palms,
Before she places her outstretched fingertips,
Into the softness of the crystalline,
She rises, her feet buried in the fallen particles,
Standing tall in the blizzard.
She is the personification of the frost,
Of the cold, ice, and snow.
She is Winter’s Child.
Literature
Pick Me Up
i tripped and
fell all over
you and your
apathy.
i didn't mean
to interrupt
your life
but you
invited me in
and now i sit
twirling circles
in the clouds
moonlight dance
blowing stars
around the
so dark blue
sky
i never thought
i'd be so empty
inside hummingbirds
flit in and out
making my
stomach roar
with unease.
(i cannot breathe
please pick me up)
Literature
Fermentation
Malt
from tree to femur.
Curl
from wave to throat.
Pool
from cliff to iris.
Devolve
from rust to skin.
Heart
slivers to paper mache,
creases to flame,
ashes to steel.
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Comments15
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Oh this was just beautiful!