Fuschia

‘Pretty in pink’ she once said.

With my white shoes.

Blood curdles around my toes.
I sink in my own blood
Lightened by my lack of depth

Gravity has no effect.

I smile back at her with pity.
Why is it the pink you envy?

Did you not know that it was crafted by children young enough to use their hands
But their sexual organs remain bound?

They see the beauty before their eyes and see blood
Lightened by the artificial love and tenderness of the young.

Are you still envious?

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