I Never Could Colour Between the Lines

i am a cirrocumulus cloud.
morphing without boundaries around the jabs of the wind,
i am red wine spilling over sides of containers
staining fingers and bed sheets and the lining of your oesophagus,
maybe if I had the body of a little boy it would be different,
or a laugh like a wind chime,
voice like sparkling lights off the edge of champagne bubbles,
delicate delicate delicate
goes the heart but nothing matches on the exterior,
i am too much.
deep-rooted cracks coated over with second-hand grime,
a booming hundred and twenty wpm to hide the fear,
bold bold bold
goes the speaker but the left hand tremors if you look closely,
i am not pink i am not yellow i am not your gentle hues of blue,
i am a violent red-streaked purple slashed through with black jagged edges,
continue to tell me i am difficult to love,
seek peace from this storm in the arms of others softer,
i hide from myself behind my own bright smile
and if you never seek me,
there i will remain.

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