'your socks aren't matching'.
I rush my feet across the floor as if
each purple, parallel pieces of cotton
might corrode the ground with
'you see, this one is a perfect shade
of lilac while this is clearly violet.'
my feet have been transformed to a garden
of aesthetic orchids that snap at each other
for ineffable, ephemeral coordination.
my inner seed wears both colours proudly
and sighs at the indelible stain
of dispute's dye.
'typical', you shake your head and sweat
little beads of chlorophyll ripe with
disdainful you and I shrivel up
right down to my curled pieces of cotton,
petals on the ground.
They fulfil the consequent self acted prophecy
of corroding, mouth less and gasping for sound.
'let mother help.'
you take a paint and turn
nature's kaleidoscope of rainbow vim into
the very same shade of your