I.
It all begins in red:
the world does not consist of black and white,
nor shades of gray,
nor bruised purple,
nor tearful blue,
nor nature green.
It begins in blood.
The universe bursts at the seams,
platelets squeezing through,
and so they escaped to form galaxies and stars.
From the womb was blood,
from the first day of school was blood,
from the first moment was blood.
Red and sticky,
dripping,
splattering, pattering,
thumping, dropping,
congealing,
drying, and then
picked apart until it is blood once more.
Love is bloody,
lust is bloody.
Winning is caked in layers
of dried sanguine
and failing is soaked in its gory liquid.
Peace flaunts it just like war,
mercy frolics in it,
serenity licks it sensually.
And my nightmares relish it.
II.
The pressure knocking
against the back of my eyes
remind me of the nightmare,
sending me back into the night
whenever I rub my eyes.
The burning pinch in the front of them
shakes me
with the paranoid vision of a needle
piercing my cornea.
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