"Here is the thing," I sighed as I
f l i p p e d over his portfolio,
our art styles are so different that I think
I should just create the artwork and you can
just...color some in and sign your name? Deal?"
I looked up to see a frown scribbled on his face;
his eyes sunk deeper into a bitter pit of mesmerizing sadness.
"I-I-I'm sorry but this is s-supposed to
be a group p-project.." He mustered the line
out of his frame. "Maybe we can find a
parallel
qɒɿɒllɘl
between our works? It-It w-won't hurt to
try."
"But.." I twirled a braid around my index finger;
my eyebrows furrowed as I tried to grasp any speck
of hope fluttering in the air, any sign from the man above
to tell me that Rose, give him a chance. He might be different.
But from all that I've ever seen in the time spent in school,
or rather commonly known as jail, with prisoners leaching
off each other to earn themselves a shorter time, with
group projects turning into staying up late by myself—
HOPE had put on its jacket, tied its shoelaces and raced
out the door before I could even notice its absence.
"B-But w-what?" He tilted his head to the left.
YOU ARE READING
shades of red
Poetrywhen you have too many thorns, all you can do is paint them in red, because, maybe then, they will look like petals [sequel to shades of blue]
