The world is made of old beige bandaids, reeking of HOA doldrums and missed PTA brunches. Beige begets grey along the spectrum of those who willingly—willfully, thoughtfully, soulfully—order their own flavor of flat-earth existence. Custom. No hot sauce, please. It's bad for their weak constitution.
My bones are filled with glitter and fury, my veins run hot with righteous indignation. My flesh screams in rainbow, and my blood runs salty with the envy of my nemesis. I stand apart, eyes wide, a howl of primal rage erupting from the depths of me—in the place they stood me, in the place I refuse to stay.
I am dandelions grown in broken concrete. I am the breath-halting scent of petrichor drifting through your open window just before the first drop falls. I am the shadow of who you used to be. The ghost of who you wanted to be. The shroud you've become, dreaming now in monochrome and low-fat snack choices.
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