Girls who are rough around the edges were always so appealing to me. Makes me wonder how it would feel to polish them,

til they’re shiny,

to feel them through the fabric, made of insecurities of a rather tomboyish girl. How would it feel to watch them shape themselves into a full, bold and precious stone,

of exquisite colour.

Girls with a rather hoarse voice make me want to pick the phone up and call them at 6 am. To listen to them slur some kind of obscenity half angry, half pleased.

But why not boys, you ask? What is wrong with me? Nothing. I appreciate a nice baritone, but there’s something about women that makes me want to taste lipstick on their lips. And sing:

 

Blue girls. oh why so shy? why your looks are so soft on my eyes? broad shoulders, chapped lips, I’m so high

On your scent, wanna trace your scars.

Oh blue girls, why so sad? wanna see you dance, your moves, your hips are fine

But why did you make me cry? I was confused and scared, but I didn’t play your heart like you did play mine 

So why now you patronize? why so cynic, why so harsh?

why so far, what do you laugh at?

It was funny right? schizophrenic little girly telling lies

You don’t know what your crying face did to my nights

You don’t know what your laughing at me did to my mind

I made you out of blue fabric and blue thoughts, it made me red like my dyed hair

And you still dared

To make me feel manic

I’m sorry I tried to bring your castle down,

It was me tasting the sound of sanity

I wonder how foolish and mad I sounded

Speaking words of revolution, heresy, and sadness

But made up in my mind you already were

And sore was my heart as well as my throat 

But less couldn’t I care, for your leash on my neck 

For your depth still lingers in my depth

And my head is still full of despair

And care

For you

Blue girl

Of the Catholic school.

 

-Alana Marroquim, Jul. 2017

 

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