i think i want to stop killing myself. stop thinking this is an okay way to live. you know, i’ve accepted the growls and hatred and dark cloud sky dumped into my brain each day, i’ve accepted it as life. the storm blanket is comfort now, safety instead of vulnerability. maybe it’s easier to live without trying so hard. i want to realize it’s been four ******* years. sometimes i pretend to wonder why i’m not okay. my fingers type out words about me being confused, why is everyone else okay and i’m just always not. as if i don’t know what i put my own body through each day. is this what makes us the most advanced species there is? the self doubt, the ability to harm ourselves against all evolutionary instinct, the need to hate ourselves? is that really what makes us special?

leonardo, michelangelo, bramante
i’m drowning in my chair in the back
of this art history class that has an
unfortunate association with you
in my stupid brain and the way
the high renaissance style reminds me of
my life when you         (when you, cared)
i painted the walls in shot color
the pinks and dark reds shined
through my cheeks, did you know
how much i cared?
or that raphael left perugino out
of his most famous painting
hanging on the walls of the vatican
and now his memory is fading
like i wish you would.
i excavate my brain every day
trying to find the reason why
why i care so ******* much.
why you could **** and bury your feelings
with ease like they were never real
were you even real?
or did i dream up your laugh
while sitting in the corner of my room,
combining feathered pillows and laundry beads
with wax from my favorite candle and there you are
born in my brain like an invasive species choking my veins
gasping for air as we watched the stars
in your driveway or maybe it was pompeii.
it felt like standing in ruins
i watched the things our brains can’t say cut
through the stone falling around our bodies.
did you notice everything we destroyed?
i could have flooded the colosseum
with the tears i held back
i wish you cared
i wish you knew
that i write poetry about the things you love
because you said you’d make me love it too
                              but i learned without you

Red screamed to Sky—
“Why can’t I be Gold, who is cherished,
jackpot, a bull’s-eye. Honey glazed fields
and caramel skies eaten
up like a succulent mango. Gold
gets to fill the pots
on the end of rainbows,
while I am merely a member on the spectrum.
Gold is a craving, desire, a thirst,
but I am     hardly     much. Rust, decay,
a rotting radish, I weep from their bodies,
defective. I’m the polluted breath
on their polluted tongues, I scorch
their skin and blast their wicked hearts out.”

Sky whispered back—
“I look down
on the globe and there are no distinct, dazzling
metallic Yellows, but I see you,
Red, in the rose bouquets and apple trees,
in blushed cheeks, and soft
kisses. Red,
you are dewy strawberries
and strawberry bushes with ladybugs dancing
on half eaten leaves. A woven picnic
blanket, checkered in line with the adoring
couple and their glimmering hearts and their freckled
faces, rain boot hit puddle, bitten lips, lip bite cherry,
sip wine in scarlet dress, spicy pepper,
firework—
You are Red.