Indigo

A lady never pours her own glass,

but I do.

she strolls gracefully,

relishing every step her stilettoes mold in the dirt.

So different, from my favorite suede platform boots.

Ain’t I a genuine lady?

What matters to me and what matters to you

are as different as Van Gogh and Frida Kahlo,

but then again, our shared values

are more tricky to unravel.

Your heart receives all the love it gets

and acknowledges them.

Your heart reciprocates that stealthy energy.

You care— both for those who are deserving;

and for the lot who doesn’t.

And perhaps your greatest attribute is

you can filter humor from un-comical settings.

You’ve learned to trust.

I’ve learned the hard way to not pretend.

When I look at my reflection,

a perfectly sculpted shell is all I see,

ironic isn’t it?

that I am bare, naked in your eyes

yet you’re blindsided to who I am

because I am wound that way.

I don’t like to talk with people I don’t know

or with people I do know,

a shell.

I heard you had come,

come to save the beloved,

I should be beyond ecstatic

but I couldn’t care less.

Others would shut me out,

after all, that’s what I deserve for not being

exactly like them

but not you.

Instead, you took a crayon, traced my silhouette

and colored my cold heart indigo.

If I had a dream catcher

for every time I thanked you,

I’d be dreaming with the entire constellation

above my crown.

Image source: www.imprnt.com

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