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.
About the Creator
Flora
𝒯𝑜𝓇𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑜-𝒷𝒶𝓈𝑒𝒹 W𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒𝓇
𝕗𝕚𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟, 𝕡𝕠𝕖𝕥𝕣𝕪, 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕙𝕦𝕞𝕠𝕦𝕣
@ꜰʟᴏʀᴀꜱ.ᴀᴜʀᴀ
Comments (1)
Very beautiful way to write about your parents. Creative!