Walk; keep walking.
Leave behind pieces of you on the trail,
like pollen from flowers when it’s a windy day.
Take a deep breath,
only to realise you can’t.
Breathe in the pollution,
only for your face to turn purple.
You cook a meal for yourself,
and notice the stove’s fire grow taller and taller,
its blue and orange flames blending into a shade of purple at the top:
its crown.
Does it rule us?
You bruise your hands trying to make your face look presentable,
constantly smushing around your nose and cheeks like clay,
(as if they will change position)
constantly taking a pair of purple scissors to cut your hair shorter
in an attempt to look like someone you might accept.
During the harsh winter,
you go for jogs with your fists clenched,
only for your hands to turn purple.
From now on, look into the sea.
Embrace the deep purple horizon in the distance;
like lavender fields of Provence at dusk,
like bruises slowly fading into sky,
something soft enough to walk through, not against.
Cover Image: Georgia O’Keeffe, 1925. Purple Petunias
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