Aquarelle Love
How I learned to paint my true colours outside of the lines. #bisexualpride
From fire and ice, behold
An existence led between extremes.
Too many times I’ve been told
To live within inflexible seams.
Red and cyan, on my skin;
Each stroke a chapter sparing no limb.
My soul tried to match within
Each mournful cry of that solemn hymn.
Soon, I was forced to admit
My dreams were pure amethyst and gold.
No longer would I submit;
From beyond your stark lines, I’d unfold.
Watercolour lips, behold
The melting of cyan, red with gold.
Naked before you, so bold
Yet shivering from a gaze so cold.
I know the fire is lost
As I unfurl my amethyst wings.
Beautiful, but at what cost?
The malignant voice in my head sings.
Your backs turn, I see your scars;
I shroud mine in ink and sweet flowers.
Will they remain our only memoirs,
Vestiges of love once ours?
For now, my hair remains mauve,
And my eyes are flecked with green and gold.
On the ledge from which I dove,
Freed at last from that wretched blindfold.
Watercolour lips, indeed!
I send a lilac kiss towards you.
I’ll follow where it may lead
Until we can find our love anew.
--E. Levreault
About the Creator
Eleni Levreault
Full-time baby doc | Part-time writer | Full-time dreamer |
https://www.instagram.com/echolima__/
Keep reading
More stories from Eleni Levreault and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Time I Danced With the Black Swan
It was 2013. I was alone in Ottawa, Canada for Thanksgiving as I was not able to travel home due to work. That morning, I awoke feeling alone and restless despite the sun's rays stroking my face; staying inside my cold apartment was not an option.
By Eleni Levreault3 years ago in Photography
Peanuts and Crackerjack
Bottom of the ninth inning. The game is tied with two outs, two strikes and a man on second. I tap the bat on home plate. The rigid vibrations it creates reminds my aching digits that this isn't over. The practice swing only adds to the heft of mental burnout... Man on second, willing to chance it. Pitcher eyes him but doesn't give in to the dangerous bluff. I kick up dust, readying the peculiar stance I've had since the days of little league. The bat lays stiff upon my cramping shoulder. Pain has no reason to be acknowledged; it's a fleeting afterthought. The sun sits passed high noon, but the stadium lights are on anyway. They trick my brain into believing they are the cause of this sweltering heat. Sporadic clouds are motionless, they too, don't want to miss this exhilarating predicament. Anticipating the next pitch, intensifying roars from the crowd rumble the stadium... Behind me, the crafty catcher adjusts his stance and spits to the dry dirt. Behind him, the staunch umpire doesn't flinch or even blink; he knows how important his call will be. The pitcher winds up, his grip tells me its gonna curve. The release is fierce! Beads of sweat from his hair and face disperse in every direction as the force of his might is unfailing. My left leg lifts—an instinctual move that will increase the power of my swing. It's all down to my two, bloodshot eyes. They lock onto the speeding, white dot as it instantly becomes the target I intend to destroy. The swing is late, but I manage a solid tip. The ball is taking a fast bounce toward the pitcher who is recovering from the almighty throw! Man on second leaves in a desperate rush! I fling the bat to the side with a sense of urgency and make a mad sprint to the only destination I have—first base. Three defenders race inward to be the first to retrieve the skidding ball. Man is almost on third! I watch the open glove of my adversary, wondering if I’ve done enough to win this race. I switch my attention to his eyes, looking for a clue, some kind of reaction that tells me the ball is in the air and heading his way. All I see is frustration. The deafening roar of the crowd spikes! Something happens that I can’t see! My opponent abandons his post right as my left stride touches the bag. I waste no time turning my head to see the pitcher laying on his stomach, pounding the mound with an open glove. He misses the opportunity to out me and the ball has quickly bounced past him. Excitement grows! This isn’t over yet... It's become an imperative fight to tag out the runner heading homeward. The catcher falls to his knees in obvious despair as he watches my teammate make the run of his life. He knows it’s going to be close when he sees the shortstop fumble the ball a second too long. I jump up and down with no plans on leaving first base. All my chips are on the speed and agility of the active runner. His cleats dig into the dirt, trailing a dust-filled cyclone from the rapid and strenuous strides. With a thrusting dive and an outstretched arm, he lands on his chest to begin the crucial slide to home plate. The shortstop fires the ball to the catcher! It immediately begins closing the gap! Nail-biting doesn't begin to describe the anxious vibe permeating the stadium. The bench begins to celebrate even before he reaches the plate. Forty thousand cheering fans reach maximum crescendo, filling the air with a glorious sound. Everyone knows how this story will end… My teammate is met by the entire bench as his fingers inch across home plate, instantly followed by the unmistakable motion of the catcher's glove attempting to tag him out—its milliseconds too late. The ump swings his arms outward, officially calling him safe.
By Lamar Wiggins3 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.