The curse of ugly pain.
The pain, a sickly moldy green.
A consuming envy,
shameful distaste for those who have it worse.
Pain that could have been pink.
The pink of a soft pastel gown.
Tattered and torn by evil hands.
Glitter band-aids on pink fleshy wounds.
Pain that could have been red.
The red of screaming terror.
Forever crimson scars.
Vibrant past, unmistakable.
Green pain is mundane.
It blends into the grass and trees.
It rots you from the inside.
A perfect gourd, left on the patio,
Thrown out when it starts to smell.