while I was unconscious
on the operating table
dressed in white
stained in red
I had a vision
of a little girl
crying darkened tears
with an expression so pained
that I wanted to hold her hand
between my blue ones
and cry with her
mingling our tears
until we were one.

he is the reason for the blood in my veins
and he is the reason for my finger on the trigger.

I wore you like a bruise
                                                                                            proudly
                                                                            on my left cheek
                                                                  displayed for all to see
                                                                              you marked me
                                                                                 but I survived
                                                                                   on my cheek
                                                                            but you will fade
                                                                    and i will still be here

blue
green
brown
eyes
skittering
up and down
my back
tiny mice
without their
cheese

and it's moments like these
when I'm all alone
at 2:42 p.m.
with the fire stuck in the sky
illuminating my cluttered desk
when I realize
that no one
(truly)
knows who I am.
no one has ever
shaved away the many layers of skin
covering my
(real)
heart
because maybe no one
(truly)
cares.

It is the color of clasped hands,
of disease spreading through the town-
clogging the throats of young children,
making mothers scream and curse their God.

it is the color of dropping eyes,
of rubber bones and leaden limbs-
struggling to raise their arms for a chance of victory,
making bodies collapse and smack the concrete.

it is the color of tight lips,
of darting eyes flitting from face to face-
wondering who to trust with the heaviness,
making heads spin and sweat drip.

it is the color of the aftermath
of scars trailing up and down your once soft skin-
crossing up and down your limbs, carrying guilt,
making young boys and girls howl at the moon

right now
in a distant place and time and feeling
someone is writing a poem

this poem could be a storm
raging on and breaking the hulls of ships
swallowing people and blowing the crossbones flags

or

it could be a pink poem
streaked with bright yellows and dazzling greens
making people laugh and giggle with delight

i could stretch out my fingertips
and hear the bones crackle-
i could connect to a poet and... magic