Colours

He reaches out his hand to the mirror and blue paint drips from his fingers

Holding hands his skin is painted orange, leaving a stain on his lover

His pencil covered with a million different colours that he has tried to wash off

He wears all the negative shades, concealing the paint on his skin behind a mask of black

The eyes of blue change every day, he hates it

He hates the way he leaves an imprint of colour on everything he touches

He hates the way he spreads the colour the more he tries to scrub it away

He hates having colour all around him, from him,

Everything is blue and red

His face, his eyes, his hair, his jeans, the sunset he stops to admire

He scrubs and scrubs trying to at least dull the colours

His skin red and raw, they grasp his hands, stopping them in place

His breath coming in quick gasps

Let your colours paint the world blue and red

Paint my skin purple and orange

The words entered his mind with searing visions of drawings

He'll paint the world with his colours

Showing everyone how he sees the world

Streetlamps bath the concrete in green so that grass appears

Don't hate your colours, they are as much as a part of you than your skin, the way you see things isn't wrong nor tainted

The only thing you truly hate is the people who refuse to understand you

The next day he presses his fingertips to a canvas and paints the world