I have never been the type of person
To be able to smile scarlet
And swing my hands in strangers’ palms
While pretending the world is golden.
I don’t understand what love truly is
But I know the answers better than most.
Is that why they come to me
With hands outstretched
Cracks in their stone fingers
And a line etched in a pale face?
I have felt heartache
And I do not know what agony is.
I fluctuate like a glass pane yearlong
Sometimes, no amount of soap can scrub me clean
But on some days I am as clear as water.
I shrink in my frame and yet cling to it
Reflecting yellow sunsets on one side
And breathing patterns on my other.
I can paint a picture of whatever I please
But my canvas is ragged and strained
And what could be beautiful is simply gray.
Gray makes me seasick
Without ever stepping off the gray grass
Lost in a gray sky and gray clouds
And waiting silently for the silver rain.
Silver is a shade of gray
And no amount of pretending changes that.
I whisper beautiful stories I don’t believe
While leading others down paths I’ve never seen
Yet somehow, they make it through,
And the lines on my palms grow longer.
I could never hold a knife
Because the steel and edges hurt my eyes
But I wonder sometimes what the point is.
I am as worn as a century and tired as a flag
Left to whip and snarl in the winds.
Why would somebody waste so much money
On things as trivial as custom stones
When really, it won’t matter once the yellow’s set in
And for all the cost could have just been carpet.
Linoleum might have been a better choice
For it is easier, it is cheaper, it is replaceable
And the flowers can be pretty.
I cannot differentiate between the pansies and the lilies
But I myself must be a rose.
A sleepy, weary, raw-scrubbed rose
Trying to be beautiful in a cold, flat world.