I dig my nails into everything I touch
and hope that I draw blood.
museum walls and the pages of books,
my shaking hands are raw and stained
with ink and paint and scars
and all of it, red--
nothing as sanguinous-scarlet or hot
as the red, the red
it sticks between my fingers,
blossoms against the dark
of sleep, of dreams
and the whites of my eyes
are shot with red,
palms pressed hard to ruby lips
and the cherry-stained tongue
tastes red,
the red, the red, the red--
and every light was burning red,
and every other color dead.
i know "sanguinous" isn't a word. poetic license.
