Nicole Meza
I always knew I was the color red.
Maroon, flesh turned flame,
blood ignited.
I saw candle wicks on your fingertips,
and they graced my shell, arousing an inferno.
The soot stained your clothes.
But in crimson there is always pleasure with the pain.
Fiery, passion, angry, urgent.
There is no pride here, no pride in vermilion.
I always knew I was the color red.
Mangled, violated.
Red.
I was made to be inhaled.
Deep and steady.
Too slow, russet red.
Too quick, battery acid red.
Tequila red.
Burning red.
I always wanted to be purple or blue or green,
but my soul was red.
Thick like blood.
Tough like skin.
Rough like love.
Gradually, intently, unconditionally.
Red.