Red is not a warning. It’s the we’re-already-here. It’s the war on two bodies six weeks in.
Red looks like the miracle I’ve never recognized draped in paper unwilling to bend. Smells like anesthetic. A deadened dead end.
Red tastes like the storm on its seventh day pour, when everything is wet except where it should be.
Red feels like a howl in my sex, as you left for the third time, when I forced you out, even though I asked you to come in the first place.
Red is an apology (I’m so sorry), the start of a rainbow after the lightening (I will never ask you to do this again).
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