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Melting Watercolors

Red and Blue

By FloraPublished 3 years ago 2 min read
3
 Melting Watercolors
Photo by FOODISM360 on Unsplash

Red—

like my father.

Drawing blood,

hot—

to bashful cheeks

if embarrassed,

enamored, excited.

Tight tee shirts

with emotional sleeves.

.

Blue—

like my mother.

Delicate, fragile—

flowers shaped like bells,

bending to the wind.

Hands dirtied with pollen

while the gentle fragrance

of new hope—

of Spring— dances.

.

Red—

like my father.

A bitter wine

that can't satisfy.

Anger impatiently knocking, banging,

painting my neck—

revealing scarlet

pumping through my streams

filled with sinking ships.

.

Blue—

like my mother.

Cold skin, icicle lips.

Chasmed sadness,

deeper than ocean trenches

with waves that bury, that drench.

Heaving swimming pools lungs—

ignoring the glowing-rimmed signs.

No diving.

.

Red—

like my father.

Detrimental passion, unrelenting.

A spotlight on a stage—clap for me.

Obsessive, like lovers

with jealous eyes—

blindfolded—

running with mania

until a crash or a gold medal.

.

Blue—

like my mother.

The softness of a summer sky

with the reliable static sun.

Simple magic— hanging art like fairy dust clouds

for those who still notice

the steadfast, endless horizon.

Eyes awake—

observing.

.

Red—

like my father.

Shaping jagged bricks

into protective architecture.

Walls, towers, castles.

Watching the cynics circle

seven times— Oh Jericho!

Still standing, never crumbling.

Sand and lime strength.

.

Blue—

like my mother.

Denim religion.

Jackets, jeans, shirts with buttons.

Germane style and poise

emitting expensive auras

and captivating charm.

Magazines, mirror balls, bubble gum, cigarettes—

drunken romance.

.

Red—

like my father.

Hating my edges.

Despising the violent storms—

addiction, infatuation.

Spiting fever dreams,

fury tongues, thoughtless passion.

The beauty found

in resentful recklessness.

.

Blue—

like my mother.

Loathing the drowning.

My despair too heavy,

as if sinking in oxygen.

My sweat furrowed brow—

dripping, staining the journey.

Eggshells cracking

under the lightest tread.

.

Red—

like my father.

Fiercely loving

until sore to the touch.

Mercurial bruises framed in gold,

to be admired, to be written about—

hanging on walls of chipped paint,

demanding to be

photographed.

.

Blue—

like my mother.

Empathetic love.

Grief that blossoms into peace—

swaying to the music

coming from the bright side.

Speaking with modesty

and the patience of silence.

Always listening. Always writing.

.

I—

a canvas.

Melting watercolors,

bleeding in unison

onto my skin— violet fingertips

touching shelves of inherited trophies and

dragging learned burdens with chains.

All the hereditary perfect imperfections.

I— Purple.

art
3

About the Creator

Flora

𝒯𝑜𝓇𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑜-𝒷𝒶𝓈𝑒𝒹 W𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒𝓇

𝕗𝕚𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟, 𝕡𝕠𝕖𝕥𝕣𝕪, 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕙𝕦𝕞𝕠𝕦𝕣

@ꜰʟᴏʀᴀꜱ.ᴀᴜʀᴀ

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  • Daphsam4 months ago

    Very beautiful way to write about your parents. Creative!

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