Red
Red is Mondays, swirling in a poisoned cloud
Like the aether
Ready to grab my hand
And throw me into the middle of the week
Before I know
What it is exactly that I have touched
And before I am ready as well

Red is apples
Macintosh melancholy
And candle wax galas
Red is an explosion
Of dark magic
Red and black, the perfect duo
Twisting and weaving in their dance
All low notes
And timpani rumbles
And middle C
And like the dueling harmonies
Red is too loud
Too bright
And at the same time
Always present
Always safe

Red is blood
In the same way my emotions are of pearl
Luminescent and shifting

If you see them
Something’s wrong

If we say goodbye
I will write you a poem
I am a poet,
that is the way of things.

but
you are lucky
if I write you a poem that says
hello

because to admit
that something happened
is nothing

but

to admit there might be something
that isn't yet, but could be
hanging in the air

is everything

Those involuntary thoughts of hurting yourself,
to cut yourself,
to tear your body to pieces.
To cry without restraint.
To scream so hard your voice breaks.
To break into chunks of fat and mold,
colliding onto the floor.
To dissolve in the ocean,
To self-combust;
To be born again and whole.

It's the days when you don’t cry,
But you don’t smile either.

It’s the days when you’re quieter than usual,
And people notice.

It’s the days when you aren’t quite thinking about anything.

But if someone asked you what was wrong,
You wouldn’t know where to start.

Why do people hate the rain?

Why do people
               h   a   t   e
                         anything?

Why expel that effort
When instead
You could just let it roll
off your back
over your head
into your lungs?

but wait--
          that is called
                    d   r   o   w   n   i   n   g