it is
an empty twist of paper; white –
there is
no reason for it to be
otherwise.
white is not
innocence.
there is
a difference between the symbol
& the construct, de-
construct, and
red
is innocent.
it is
a visual lust,
an endless ocean split
beneath my feet, my hands, my
fingernails.
call it copper, rust, dirt,
let it paint my lips like
sacrifice, like
promised wine, like the first time.
no reason.
yes, that. no bloody reason, did you hear me, I said –
sweat and tears and
straggled faces,
pressed against windowpanes, pressed
against my hands.
it isn’t power. not like
that.
but it sure as hell tastes sweeter
than –
Author notes
m a c e y m u s e
's been a while.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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it's great to see you writing again. i like the mystery at the end.
you still haven't lost your spark.
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