'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

their oddity.

'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

banality's blue.