i have to paint
this grey garden
with a rainbow of blossoms,
she said, holding the
forever-unplanted seeds
in her bloody hands
from last night's rage;
green eyes staring at
Mary Sue's garden of
thousand kaleidoscopes,
until the day where
a sage came for one
nice cup of tea,
only to witness
her pathetic,
inane weeps,
the aftermath of
seemingly endless
stories of loathing
and other poisons.
the sage stabbed
and scarred her
delicate hand softly
with feather-covered
needle, she wept
aloud a cry of
polychromatic agony.
the storms finally
calmed, as she voiced
out her dubiety of
her own metamorphosis,
the last question of
the day,
the question she
asked herself
in her chrysalis
days after.
ㅡcursedreveries.
a story of my own, how i'm impatient to change the flaws i have after someone told me that, and how it stressed me out.