I could paint the sky
With the color of my sighs.

Blue,
Purple,
Black.

A bruise of a day,
Preceded by a shameful evening
Of bearing my yellowed teeth.

Inhale the dye,
And stain my insides.
Because sometimes even the hidden truths
End up being lies,
And I'll tell myself
It's the hand we've been dealt.

These new jeans are too tight,
And just for self-spite
I'll go and cut them up into
Beautiful butterflies.