Vermillion Lace

The city's ubiquitous form floods the room

Room filled with the scent of molding tea leaves

Leaves fluttering to the ground in dead clusters never again to bloom

Again, she sits, and stares and waits.

 

She can't place those forgotten words

Words uttered from a sharp tongue

Tongue coiled and forked, refusing to move on towards

Towards the words that have long been unsung.

 

The fall brings soft breezes

Breezes that sweetly cut skin

Skin chapped and sore as the ground slowly freezes

Freezes and crackles in the gray landscape she's in.

 

She's lost the path to escape

Escape amongst the fictional friends she accumulated

Accumulated within the world she can mold and reshape,

Reshape a place safe from the world she has loathed and hated.

 

Her homeland no longer feels like a home, no more bus tokens to use

Use to find her home, now somewhere else in a foreign land

Land open to those who see the violets and blues

Blues that aren't the color of the bruises on her hand.

 

She falls and stumbles just to break free

Free from the uncreative society

Society that does not support her future to be

Be the opposite of dull, the only priority.

 

Tired of the suffocating grays

Grays and blacks and tiring olive greens

Greens that stem from depression polluted days

Days of thick air and heavy eyes hidden behind wire mesh screens

 

Tired of this constant bereft feeling

Feeling the lack of self confidence

Confidence pressed down into kneeling

Kneeling before the monotone populous, gaudy opulence.

 

false security, the blanket covering this place

Place in which she shields herself

Herself, a fragile broken doll with an atrabilious face

Face covered by a scar of vermillion lace, a porcelain doll on a shelf.

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