by Aileen Lu
Art by Irene Han
Issue: Serein (Summer 2016)
You called me Red,
but my hair was black lead,
my eyes were clear blue,
and I never wore such a hue.
You caught me in the sunrise
and looked into my eyes
as warm hope seeped through,
and You said, “Red, that’s you.”
You found me Red everywhere;
in your fingers drawn through my hair,
your heartbeat fluttering in my ear,
and your eyes making mine disappear.
You buried my dark tresses from sight,
and the sky fell into Redness every night
when your lips tasted of dusty apples hidden,
and the passion of pomegranates forbidden.
You splattered Red on your blank wall;
burning globs of words violently maul
and rusty metal slices through inky locks
as seconds abandon red-handed clocks.
Red is the escape of a steamy sigh
that rises to meet a midnight sky,
and the ribbon falling from my neck
to the ground, a fragile bloodied wreck.
