Flame Red

The color of passion tastes like sick in my throat.  Acid, burning, ulcer flare-up.  Face hot and hands shake.  I hate.

Not always.  Once, red was a blanket, a warm welcome shade, the color of your hair (dyed), the color of your lips (painted,

parted).

Like seasons change, like fondness fades, you slipped into blackness from day to night, becoming another('s).

Red is only blood to me, is only the color of leaves before they fall dead from branches.  The flush of my face as I turn away.  Suffocation and shame and the words you traced on my back, those words I never spoke.  The flash behind my eyelids as I fall, punch

drunk

from one too many rounds against myself, in this ring.

Red.  I would eat you up, swallow you whole.  You could burn more holes in my stomach, with the cherry of your cigarette.

Would that I could know such intimacy.

--

Next: mustard?

 

The End

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