Can’t grasp

People; half of the population in the world;

We walk with hues of purple

Tiptoeing across our skin;

And paintings have always told stories.

I used to cry listening to my own.

Although purple stained us, we overlook the red.

Who killed the good in us?

Monsters and shadows cut feathers in half,

Wondering how long it’d take for us to collapse.

Where are their bruises?

”There could only be “two” types of beings” god had said.

What am I to make of this logic?

I am to loathe.

I am to carry ripped innocence within these weary arms,

Without a single concern that comes in all shades of crimson.

It was almost as heavy as a burden.

Without wings we are meant to accompany misery;

and it wasn’t because it loves us.

It mocked us.

And I forsake knowing this.

Without a reason to commit pain

I cannot grasp the goodness in this scenario of life.