Writing

She carried around a lip gloss with her, reminiscent of jam and the fruits I used to eat in my youth. It appears darker in the bottle than on her lips, yet she says it is perfect the way it is.

Pretty. 
A word I have been called a few times. 
But why can’t I see it? Why do I look at others and think they’re beautiful. 
Why can’t I see myself the same way? 

Blood spills onto our streets too much.

The streets were once safely kept

but now they're permanently stained

with cries, sirens, and death. 

The harrowing cold of the family house,

Everything was just too much that day. The hollow slam of her footsteps against the pavement floor caused all the creatures beneath her feet to scatter.

You said today-

today was supposed to be a day of unity.

A day of unity for her.

But instead of having a day of unity 

that won't do anything in the long run-

Just stop!

I think there is a glitch in my processing unit; 

when the letter 'A' enters the system, 

it doesn't just register as a character—

it spills out as a deep magenta that dyes the rest of the word.