Green is what I am for want of blood-
And what blue is oft mistaken for.
It’s the inability to forgive.
Not unwillingness, mind, but a lack, -
An emptiness needing filling with sick, wet memories that sting with sugary cold.
Green is the vein pulsing with love-hate in my mother’s left temple-
Or her right, depending.
It’s the remains of Christmas.
Green is a metamorphosis stunted-
Something small and lime and many-eyed, suffocated in its bed.
(as I am often afraid of ending up)