i am sad.
i am never not sad.
all because of you.
The outpouring of this emotion,
keeps you alive.
But you're not.

I'm six years old. I'm six years old and my favourite colour is green because it's the colour of my eyes and I think my eyes are the prettiest things I have ever seen.

I'm eight years old. I'm eight years old and I had a nightmare so bad I felt like my eyes were deceiving me. My favourite colour is now the same pale blue as my Mum's floral bedsheets because they make me feel safe.

I'm ten years old now. I'm ten years old and I'm a big girl because I'm allowed to walk to school with my friend instead of my Mum. We walk past fields of buttercups and other pretty flowers but my new favourite colour is the peach of the rose in my front garden.

I'm twelve years old. I'm twelve years old and I can't stand the colour green anymore because the meaner people in my school decided my self worth was less important than their jokes. I don't have a favourite colour anymore, but if you ask I'll say it's purple.

I'm fourteen years old. I'm fourteen which means I've been a teenager for a year and I still can't stand the colour green. My Mum let me dye my hair for the first time and now it is red and red is my favourite colour, but if you asked I would still tell you it's purple.

I'm sixteen now. I'm sixteen and I think I know everything, I met a boy that I like for the first time, my Mum doesn't know, but I think he makes the colour green a bit easier to look at because he told me he loves my eyes and that they are the most beautiful things he has ever seen. He gave me a pair of rose tinted glasses and I'm not quite sure why, but for now my favourite colour is the deep brown of his eyes but if anyone asks, my favourite colour is still purple.

I'm eighteen now. I'm eighteen and I can finally drink without it being illegal, and I have started drinking to forget everything except the colour of my Mum's pale blue floral bedsheets, the peach of the rose in my front garden, the bright red of my hair and the green of my eyes but most of all I'm drinking to forget the purple of the bruises that litter my skin, the purple that I always insisted was my favourite colour for reasons unknown to me.

I should be twenty years old now, and my favourite colour should be the orange of the sunset, the pink of the sunrise or maybe even the yellow of the buttercups in the fields I used to walk past on my way to school, but I did not make it to twenty years old. My favourite colour was never purple and I never asked for my skin to be constantly tainted that way, but you made sure I never healed and now my Mum is laying purple flowers on my grave and she's wishing she fought more to get my favourite colour to be green again like when I was six years old and in love with myself and the world around me, because if I still loved the innocent green then maybe I wouldn't be suffering my greatest nightmare as a child with the only comfort being tucked up in the seemingly endless sea of brown. I always tricked myself and everyone else into thinking things were perfect with rose tinted glasses but the lenses shattered and the last flower you laid on my grave was the peach coloured rose from my front garden, and now the petals have wilted and all of the colour has been drained from me but this new world has more hues than I could have ever dreamed of.

​
you are not your age,
nor the size of clothes you wear,
you are not a weight,
or the colour of your hair,
you are not your name,
or the dimples in your cheeks,
you are all the book you read,
and all the words you speak,
you are your croaky morning voice,
and the smiles you try to hide,
you’re the sweetness in your laughter,
and every tear you’ve cried,
you’re the songs you sing so loudly,
when you know you’re all alone,
you’re the places that you’ve been to,
and the one that you call home,
you’re the things you believe in,
and the people that you love,
you’re the photos in your bedroom,
and the future you dream of,
you’re made of so much beauty,
but it seems that you forgot,
when you decided that you were defined,
by all the things you’re not.

I wish people were like books with words written all over them about the person they are, so we could know their intentions before you learn the hard way.

He already forgot me
It's time I do the same

He twirls and whirls with supernatural speed
His usual blue eyes, with smoky black gleam
In the midst of a battle, sword in hand
Master to master, friend to friend

A metal, black, that no-one knows
Owned by one associated with crows
His messenger, his ally, his beast of burden
Caws and calls his silent song of death

A mercenary, bounty hunter, with just cause
To right the wrong and return what lies lost
To defend, apprehend, to defeat the Kursed
A story riddled into my verse

In order to save some money
Which in hindsight wasn't smart
Me and my buddies got together
To make our own fireworks

And as luck would have it
We found all we need under the kitchen sink
The whole time looking to do this cheap
Instead we came out free

Knowing this day would draw a crowd
As soon as the rumor mill filled up
So in our vast wisdom with a few cells missing
We mixed the batch up in Jimmy's tub

Not being exact on science
As illustrated in that magazine
We felt no need to measure
And might have gone a bit extreme

As soon as the stuff started bubbling up
That thought did cross our minds
Remember at the start, saying it wasn't smart
And that little mention of hindsight

With the size of the flash, little wonder we're not ash
And still have all our fingers and our toes
It's hard to explain the size of the bang
And why now Jimmy's house is one big hole

But we did put on a show not soon forgotten
That could be seen from outer space
And where Jimmy's house used to be
There's now a community pool in it's place

So come and join us on this holiday
Burgers, beer, and of course fireworks
In fact we're heading to Davy's house now
To mix a few things up...