1 min
Image of 2019
Image of Poetry

*not about periods*

I never liked the color red,
It reminds me how vulnerable I am, How weak I am.
How fragile--that no amount of milk, Could ever build a foundation strong enough To keep me together before I crash down In a haze of rubble and smoke
And ash and dust
Over and over again.
I don’t like the color red,
Because it reminds me of the crimson syrup That I associate with pain, Neurotransmitters shooting through my body, Coursing through my nerves screaming, “WATCH OUT!”
But my hearing was never that good.
I tell people I don’t care,
To be frank, I don’t.
I think that’s my issue: However for someone who doesn’t care, All I see is the color red.
That must mean I care.
My eyes are blue,
My skin is white,
My hair is yellow.
I wouldn't say yellow actually. Gold is a better word, Even though I’m worthless.
My name is Irony.
Ha, iron? Gold? The name suits me.
Sorry, I often lose track of my words, My mind is like that amtrak train;
it derails.
I was talking about caring, and the color red, and my bad hearing.
Let me start from the beginning, Let me be clear.
I hate the color red, Because I look at it and see myself. I hear it in my words,
I feel it in the pinching from my nails, When I make a fist.
I’m not that strong, though, I didn't drink enough milk.
I’m short,
Like my temper,
Like my hair.
I didn't drink enough milk.
I ruin relationships,
With my headstrong personality, And my sharp words,
With my dull pronunciation.
I can't speak right,
My words flow through,
Like the broken spigots at school Where they chant, “Rock the red and gold!” And I cringe at the words,
As I instead rock back and forth
to control my anxiety: I’m trying.
They say rock the red and gold, But I rock white and blue, As I stare down at my bruises, Covering my legs,
I lack iron.
(My name is irony.)
I don't drink milk.
I have 99 problems,
1 is the color red,
the rest are being happy.


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