poetry

I Want Red. {poetry}

 

I want red —

the kind which will seep from the skin; the kind that makes me cry

like the last moment of a sunrise

or the beginning inches of a rose petal

the kind of red that will settle

only for a second before turning into a flame

the kind of red that stains

the lips

and kisses my lover’s mouth,

tracing the spaces between his wrists and his fingertips

I want red —

the kind that rips

and roars and soars

and dips its toes into the abyss

like teetering on the edge of a cliff

I want the kind of red that reminds me of the beauty in falling

and the power in standing back up

like a cup

that is forever flowing between

empty and full;

a red which is both the push and the pull

like the perfect portrayal of the fluctuation between molecules

or waves crashing on a beach

or the owl’s screech

while it echoes within the trees

a manifestation of something utterly unseen

like the moment which will cease;

the minute that will halt in its place

when I face the red which I seek.

The kind of red that peeks

through the curtains

as the mornings make their rounds

like the sound

of the birds

or my mother’s tinkering with breakfast in the kitchen;

the kind of red that places me back

into the footprints of my childhood, where I stood alone

and the only friends I had discovered

were the monkey bars.

Red — with the paint chipped from too many hands

where I used to stand

faced with only one concern

which was the burn of the blisters on my palms

and how I could withstand the pain in order to get the full way across

a red that will toss

my doubts to the wind

and show me what it is like to be a child again,

a red that looks like the skin beneath the skin

the kind of red that aches

and makes

falling asleep much less poetic. Hectic.

I want red

like maturity

and my first bleed;

the seed which bore a new me

and I want the red which will end me.

I want the first song I ever fell in love with

Crimson and Clover

I want it over and over;

a red that replays in different ways

and teaches new things each time.

A teacher,

a red that listens and responds and reacts, and retreats

and surrenders.

A red that has no use in being a mentor

but rather

an overseer

hidden between the layers of each of my realities

a red that is a fantasy

yet oh-so-real.

The kind of red that will heal

and rock me softly back into my body

after I steal

the stars from the skies and scatter them

upon a canvas of color

I will want red as the focal point;

Like the center of an unintentional, purely habitual masterpiece

like the lease

I have on life,

a temporary scene that unleashes something extraordinary

within the seemingly conventional spans of time

which both live and die

in red.

***

MarlyJean02Raised in Canada, Marly Jean is a restless rambler with a sacred yet sinful attachment to art. It is both her dark and her light; her muse and her addiction. In words she could never describe the feelings that hide far beneath the veil of her face… but she still tries. Vulnerability is the sugar sprinkled upon the canvas of a masterpiece; to expose the spaces she thought to be silent. Spending most of her time traveling, working with kids, making art and making love — her life mirrors what she feels so deeply within herself. She enjoys very long walks on the beach, writing poetry and short stories, reading tarot, painting murals, pencil crayon drawings, and sucking the nectar from each second of her life. If you were to go looking for such a person you would be wise to try the hillside, where the trees tower, or the sea… or her website, and on Facebook. As in the words of Oscar Wilde, “She lives the poetry she cannot write.”

***

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