She was screaming again
but this time,
she wasn't going to stop.
It was red, she was red, agony.
Red tastes like blood on lips.
The roses have thorns
and I ooze red.
His voice is red,
sharp,
unforgiving.
Red is the crunch of autumn leaves
and fleeting memories,
but also the sound of anger,
and the metallic scent of spilled blood.
Her lips on my cheek,
a cherry stem on my tongue,
a papercut.
That is red.