she was red with love,
full of it; the feeling oozed from her skin
and dripped from her laughter like honey.
love stuck to the walls of her home
and she painted with it;
her life was a canvas and red was the colour
and your hands were her paintbrush.
i guess you didn’t realise
that her colour stained other people.
(his lips used to be blue but they’re purple now.
they probably taste different too but
you never asked her if they tasted sweeter than yours)
your own skin was the colour of moss.
dirt was under your fingernails.
your hair was full of splinters.
her hair was always so soft
even when you ripped it out of her.
she’s all red now.
even her throat is smiling.
she still laughs in technicolour.