White to Black and Red
by Bethanie Lee
he watched me
as the tips of my fingers
traced down to the darkest point
from white to black
accessible. easy.
mine.
he craved perfection
that came in the form of me
pushed to my knees
skinned by rough concrete
again and again,
when he couldn’t find it.
head under the waves
every gasp,
a mocking glimpse of shore
you were smiling,
and all i saw
was a blank canvas
it was so easy to believe
that you were my everything
i touched you
your skin didn’t blister
tell me,
was it possible
to not think of red.
he wielded himself a knife
forged in scorching fire
he told himself,
it was no longer a tradition
beveled every edge, finally,
to his standard of perfection
forged with his hands,
a bucket of red
poured onto purest of white.
he’s watching her,
one cut was not enough
still, you don’t know
how much you mean to me
look back, one glance,
my fractured fingers
control themselves.
is it the poison on my skin?
fangs that have pierced my flesh?
a hundred chains wrap around my body
he’ll bend his wrist,
throwing me into a cage
while he’s comforted
by the fragrance of iron
when he sees my reflection
painted on the stainless steel of that blade
fingers imprinted on my face,
a glamorous hue of black
on my colorless cheek.
wishing she knew,
if i told you
they were laughing
if i told you
it was a ruse
would you believe my only truth
used to be you
my own words
engulfed me into a world
plagued with thorns and blood roses
run away, as fast as you can,
i can’t stop seeing red.
until im crying
why me?
until im wishing
i never met him
until im praying,
please, make it stop
if he hadn’t painted
countless layers of red
and called it art
if that black canvas
was only his.
hey, eyes on her
dragging her cape across the mud
pretending,
she can still fly.