write about the color of my cranberries when they are first ripe, then the juices that spill out like soft milk overflowing;
the way your blood race to your nose and the color of warmth that
fills my hands and spreads down to my toes when
i am sitting beside a fire and some lights, shielded from
the blue outside.
here i am, on the coral sand, greeted by the hushed-colored waters to watch as it just barely covers my feet. (it splashes little splashes of itself on me.)
the tongue that glides over lips with sheen is pink, the smell of the perfume is pink;
the smell of the fauna and flora, natural wildlife spurring around, the mist goes about 3,000 feet in my direction – i think it’d also go about 3,000 feet in yours, as well.
the insides of this dewy bud, juicy and softened, and not yet ripe; flooded with instincts (and insects)
and someone else’s pink.
the color is when i'm angry at you but instead i am angry at me;
and if i could i'd be reborn as a starfish or the tiniest caterpillar you've ever seen.
the color is when i'm angry at you but instead i am angry at me