The color of death is not black, is not white. Not red, not gold. Think: ashen skin. Think: where did the blood go? Think: pale, so ******* pale. Bruise again. He’s going to bruise again. Mottled red and purple and blue and green and yellow. That’s what the body does after death. Blood runs down to the lowest bend of the body and bruises the skin.
The rust of cerebrospinal fluid as it sloshes back and forth in the bag hanging above the bed. My mother’s hands: white knuckled and gripping down on washcloths to prevent her from breaking the skin of her palms. The constant hum of telemetry, the soft whoosh of the ventilator.
The human body has roughly 7% of its weight in blood. The human body has no ******* idea what to do when there is too much or too little of really anything. Think: blood vessel bursting. Think: cells mutating. Think: proned patient coding after intubation.
Bruised. His hands were bruised from all the needle-sticks, from his lack of platelets. And a single transfusion only goes so long. Goes three weeks long. The hands on the belly, laid so gently, so carefully are covered in makeup. The hair is parted wrong with a cowlick. I know how they created that soft smile on his closed mouth. I’ve read the books. I’ve heard the talks from morticians. They’ve made my grandfather tan, but I know what’s underneath the foundation: grey.
writing your grief prompt nine: choose any color. let your mind follow that color to a memory, or a scene, or a story of any kind
i am subway air; my undergroundness apparent in your lungs your runningaway your eyes i forgetᵗᵘʳⁿ ᵃʳᵒᵘⁿᵈ and my family of trains and silence. ᵗʰᵉʸ ᵈᵒⁿ’ᵗ ᵍᵒ ᵗᵒᵍᵉᵗʰᵉʳ ᵇᵘᵗ ʰᵉʳᵉ ᶦ ᵃᵐ.
i don’t take after the transportation: i am poised poison and my hands hold all the words i have ever opened my mouth forᵈᶦʳᵗᶜʰᵒᵏᵉᶜᵒᵘᵍʰᵍᵃˢᵖ.
but i dance, too. everywhere. in everyone. places and people who are not youᵗᵘʳⁿ ᵃʳᵒᵒᵒᵒᵒᵘⁿᵈ. i can’t help it. i have no choice. they are here, and…
and when i am tired: i stop and just am. for however long it takes my memory to paint something small and heavy the lines of past decisions the shadows of living trees in a forest of dead ones the shapes of a thought i once had the color of that moment ⁿᵒⁿᵉ, ᵇᵉᶜᵃᵘˢᵉ ᵐʸ ᵉʸᵉˢ ʷᵒᵘˡᵈ ʰᵃᵛᵉ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ ᶜˡᵒˢᵉᵈ the movement of that glimpse of infinite imagination that i once made my religion. once.
then: i stop stopping. i wake up from nosleep. i look around and i cannot find you.
This form Like a dead cat in the street, I Am roadkill, I am whatever you need me to be A puppet Shards of pink tinted glass under my nails Under my skin Love like a dream Feeling like a dream Addicted To the dream Give me water, blood I tear apart this carcass Slick with the allure of death Release me from this casket Lined with silver Glittering Rusted Tired
The grey skies spread above me, has something to tell cool breeze that soothed behind me, has something to follow funny smell flies through my nose, has something to invite noise of frog wandering through my ears, has something to warn the single droplet falls from high, had rolled down through my cheek...