Send my love home (and think little of me)

At seven I learnt the strength of a lie,

With the breath of exhaustion infecting my lungs,

I found relief in knowing that although I am a shade if green not found in my home,

I can call myself blue with no one to bat an eye.

At age ten I realised that as long as eyes ligering on skin were held with disinterest,

I could stand upright with pride,

Without the disdain of a father.

A shallow red infects my heart,

With yellow to follow,

Deteriorating my lungs

And closing my throat.

Fourteen was a year of quiet realisations,

When whispers between friends became a solemn promise,

Of far away lands with a house for two,

Where eyes upon reflections don't have to look down.

As the yellow recedes,

Turning into a cyan closer to my self,

I hide under a shaded tree in hopes of darkening it to a blue suitable to my company.

I am now eighteen and all on my own,

Rotting and hidden in my own paradise.

Knowing now what i didn't then,

How being green doesnt make me less,

And that although the darkening blue of my fathers eyes hurts,

The bright green of hers is equel to the love i have lost.