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Colorful Design

Makenzie McDonald











I was born blue.

Suffocation within the womb.

Blue, like the Smurfs that played across the television set.

The hue that dyes your mouth, every time you suck on a blueberry lollipop.

The phthalo blue that Bob Ross crisscrossed in strokes to form that happy little sky.

The type of blue people revolve their personalities around.

When I was blue, I was dying.


Not even 5 seconds into this world and I had already decided to check out.

5 seconds.

Every 60 seconds, someone is murdered.

Every 39 seconds, someone commits suicide.

Every 27 seconds, someone dies in a car crash.

Every 3 seconds, someone starves to death.

Every second, I die.


Should I fear the color blue?

Should I check in the mirror every morning to see if I have asphyxiated in my sleep?

Gasp for air as my lungs ooze salty bile.

My eyes turn white.

No, I do not do this.

Because I know where the blue lies.

It does not prick my skin anymore.


There is no nurse who will pitifully strap a breathing machine to my face as I’m surrounded by

hundreds of healthy babies who are not begging for a release

from the humiliation of a disgustingly drunk man who cannot even spell my name right.

Let alone see that I’m dying.

Those who go out and lead lives full of passion, love, beauty, fear, and sadness while I am stuck

to the gurney of my mother’s chest


What is it like to be the baby who was born with a name, a face, a good head on her shoulders

She wears her morals proudly

instead of opening them up to the world like the trashy whore she is. 

When will she be like her father wants?

put on her blue stockings and swipe around her little blue handkerchief to pick up all the

black dust and grime that has set in the corners of his house? 

Or how will she learn to apply that icy blue lipstick in such a way that her mother will not call her a slut

but the boy next door will take that blue for just a moment of reprieve

only to force it down her throat the next? 

I pity those who do not reside within the blue, for they do not know how to live with it.


The blue that echoes on the wall through a broken window.

The blue that forms on the hand after it slams into the counter.

while your father yells at your mother for his own bruised skin.

The blue that runs from your eyes

while you lie stiffly awake to protect

your brother and mother from the guns downstairs.

The blue that twists around your neck

while the pillow sinks further and further into your nose.

The blue of the parasite that’s in your mind.

The blue that silences your voice.

The blue I have lived with, ever since I was born. 


There is an intruder in this house.

I see it through the cracks in the floorboards.

Silent, lethal

I awake to it rummaging through my mind,

Weaving, tugging, digging, scratching, watching.

There is an intruder in this house.

I do not know where it came from,

If it is a permanent resident

Or a mere traveler passing through the wind.

Sometimes I hear its name spit like fire off the tongues of others.

As a precaution I stay away from such formalities,

Stay unrecognized from the beast lest you be invited to its dungeon.

There is an intruder in this house.

Under the bed, in the closet, behind the cupboards

Move quick

Be an artful imposter

I am fearful that it has made permanent residence

Its beady eyes lurk through the darkness,

Grinning gleefully with crimson fangs

It has killed everyone off, and I am to blame.

For in its wake there is only turmoil,

Chaos, confusion,

Soon it shall make the final strike against me

I grapple with this inevitable doom,

Fist against wall, head against fist, wall riddled with holes

The door opens, a plume of red sweeps over my eyes

I have found the intruder in this house

She shares my face


And yet, for a moment I held back.

                                                                        I held the mountains down and the floods back.

                                                                                    I like to think

                                                                                                            that it was worth it.

                                                                                                But as always

                                                                                                                        The dam broke.


I will end myself before my beginning.

                                                                I have a working title in mind.

                                                                            “Long live the King”

The King will never live that long

                                                              Today will be different than the next.

                                                                              Today will be different than yesterday.

Yesterday will always be better than tomorrow.

                                                                                                                                                   I love killing tomorrows.

I want you to try to stop me.

It’s my guilty pleasure.


Come find me under the brush

And I will show you the inside of hell.


I miss all those who have seen it

I don’t find them often anymore.



The ebb will never stop flowing,

            The hunt is forever a chase.

                                                                          I have become the start of an illusion and the end of reality.

No one can touch me.


Not even myself.


A little scratch resonates in my ear,

And my heart twists

A twinge of guilt submerges beneath a wave of envy

I hear it chitter-chatting

Chatter, chatter, chatter

I try to shut it behind closed doors,

But its attached itself to my core

Hatred replaces my blood,

Jealousy rots my organs,

I swim in a loathsome sea of shame while I watch

All the others live my fantasy

                                          My fantasy?

Turns into a reality that suffocates my lungs and

My skin molds.

I want to hate them,

But I hate this bug more

            A little bug that chews and chutters,

Chatter, chatter

Why can I not fit myself into their skin?

Into their suit of gold and leave my rust behind.

I claw away at myself until there is nothing left

So that I may be reborn as one of them

That’s when the bug whispers,

“It’s too late”

And I realize I will not dream,

Because they have stolen mine.


When I was younger, I collected oddities

Roly-polies, worms, leaves, sticks,

The pads of my feet covered in grime,

My hands clawing at the dirt beneath me.

I made natures soup, a nomad of the land.

As I grew up, I began to live inside.

Long ago were the days of rolling in the mud like a dog,

Now was the time to be a pristine trophy

Placed upon the wall, glimmering in the sunlight

White dress, red cheeks, fluffy lashes

She was clean,





                                                                      White tights, plump lips, lace panties

But what she truly understood

Was that no matter how many times she





She would never rid herself of the dirt

It sits there, building up, caking her walls

Grimy hands reach into her entrance, mud fills her insides.

She continually




And just like when she was a kid, she loves the dirt.

Secretly, she still collects






A beautiful body

An innocent body,


No longer.

My soul is soiled with smut.


One day, the sun will explode.

It will be just like any other day,

The sky will be bright, the clouds racing across

Adults will scurry to work; kids will trudge to class.

The bright, yellow orb in the sky

Soon it will fizzle out,

Like putting out a flame between your fingers

My family will gather together, spending the last seconds we have together

Yellow hue glimmering in our eyes,

Pleading that we may hold onto any glimpse of happiness

From the memories we shared.

I stare at the sky, wondering what makes it so special

How did others find the sun in their lives?

                Where has it been all of mine?

I must have experienced the sun at some point,

Back when I was young,

Memories that have now all but faded.

My vision grows blurry as my eyes slowly burn

I try to fit in with the others,

Groaning and moaning for the sake of humanity

But a liar is good at blending in

A liar mimics because she is jealous that the others go to feel the sun’s warmth.

Because in truth, I am waiting for it to explode.

Maybe then I can finally grab a spark of sunshine.


My mother used to tell me that I was born into good fortune,

That I had wealth in the right places.


I have so much that I care about,

So much to enjoy, I recognize

And yet,

I continue to take, to try to fill the void deep within that nothing has seemed to reach


I am constantly hungry; a desire sprouts within my recesses

A gluttonous being that deceives the masses

I have become addicted to the guilt,

An addict to the hunt

I try to stop myself, but she is stronger than I

                                                                                                   DO YOU TRULY KNOW ME?

One day, I fear that I will face my judgement

            But until then



Pink is my favorite color.

It is the color that makes me smile inside, the color that brings me peace

I have everything in pink,

It has become near an obsession, but a welcome one

A dual sided obsession

It is the language of love,





So many different ways to feel love

The Greeks believed love came from the gods,

That the only way to feel something towards your fellow kindred souls

Was through divine intervention

When I was in love, it felt divine

Like soaring, floating, bouncing on top

Of pink clouds

I bled pink,

When my heart was ripped out

I expose the pink that now stains my skin

To anyone who will look

To anyone who will glimpse and say

“I love the color pink”


They love it, they love me

                                                                                                         They love me?

Who loves me?

The men who tear apart my fleshy pink skin?

The ones who desire it?

I am punctured until I am faded

Like chewed bubblegum,

Old, lifeless, used,


I love


Cupid has riddled my corpse with arrows,

I love the hues it colors my body.

I love when my heart thumps so loud that a man pulls it out and eats it.

I love holding a hand attached to nobody.

I love

            being in love

                                    with the ghosts that haunt me.


Makenzie McDonald is a Creative Writing/Studio Art double major with a minor in psychology. She is from Granville, OH. She enjoys the arts, being with her friends and family, and playing with her guinea pig.

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