I want to live
in a bright pink house,
with gardens on the sides.
With bay windows
and great skylights to
fill my space with light.
She shook her head, assured me
that pink houses are just
not the way the world works,
that maybe my shutters
can be dipped in violet
and maybe ivy
will wind its way up the walls,
but a bright pink building?
People will stare.
Fast-forward fifteen
years and I
think back on these words,
pulling a brush through
magenta hair. This body
is the only home I have
but the dye
that stains my skull like
strawberry syrup, the ink
planted like vines
crawling up my arms,
paint me
a bubblegum building,
gardens on the sides.
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