Like a white silk dress with a stain of black tea, I have always felt tainted.
Edges of torned out pages as skin and a heart made of muddy soil,
I knew I would never be something that was made of the purest shades,
The most vibrant of colours the world had up for offer.
A born imperfection,
Bearer of impurity and creator of chaos,
It was all I knew I could ever be,
And it was all I had made myself live with.
Like oil paint on a canvas, the hurt had dried upon my barren lands.
I had grown moss right over it,
Watered them with unshed tears and tended to them with hidden sorrows,
Until the hurt grew, giving me a bloom of iris to carry with me whereever I went.
These flowers, they were in the shade of prussian blue,
And with that garden full of siberian iris growing within me,
The shade was something I knew of since I was a child.
It was a shade I bore on my skin and bones,
A shade that soon covered my limbs;
From the roots of my hair to the tips of my fingers,
They began to grow, and pretty soon,
They had carved their own story,
A tale written with faded ink that hugged my whole being,
Marking its place in this barren land without a single soul to witness.
So it came as a wonder.
A wonderstrucked phenomenon that held no explanation,
When I saw the same shade spewing out of your lips,
Dripping down from your chin onto my heavy heart like silent drops of rain,
How without even noticing, a shade so familiar had become so foreign to the sight.
It has been a while since I grew a new set of irises,
I had forgotten how it felt to have my hands bleed as I laid them into the ground.
It was at that moment, the reminder rang true,
A white tainted dress,
A born imperfection,
A canvas full of hurt,
And a valley overflown,
With irises, in the shades of prussian blue....
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