Crimson nails that scratch vermilion lines across
artificial Gatorade sweat and the spark of a cigarette.
Flash and pain of a cherry burst, a strawberry
in-between shining glossed lips,
three inch heels and rubbed-raw skin.
Burning nose and the lighter that lit the crack,
track marks and blistering feet on asphalt,
the sun setting on traffic.
Oh, your hat, shirt, shoes, belt:
my tongue and the back of my throat:
the bullet hole and the spreading stain:
oh, and it's all your fucking color.
The color of a blood.