[an erasure. click HERE to read full prose poem]
Sanguine Heart
Part 1
I am not a pink
girl. Red is my color
no need to dilute,
add white to temper down
my intensity.
If we friends,
you already know:
I’m passion incarnate—
red is the color of love
& I got nothin but love
for ya (baby ;)
Part 2
I temper down my color
with color:
red + orange = red orange
red orange + yellow =
outrageous orange* = me
on fire, energy bursting manic
you can’t help but feel it
ignite the red in you—
enkindles light/in your heart
smile spark, laughter soothes
any fires burning blue in you—
whatever’s got ya flushed
got ya mad in yr heart,
got that choler boiling hot—
ain’t no thang, if
you got red in you, too.
If you got blood in your veins,
ya got hope. Tap that
sanguine air—
breathe blue sky in, feel
your belly expand,
spark light in ya heart,
smile on yr face. Hug
your favorite Libra & laugh;
feel that sanguine smile, that
sanguine hope, that confidence
seeded deep in your core:
that’s the red in you—the love.
Feel it warm in your breast;
let it glow—
a beacon, a guidepost
to spark smiles, give
the only gift that matters.
Real Talk for a Night & Always an Evolution
...I know I'm not even close to a *ping* on your radar, but when I come across you on FB/IG, my radar sounds and I can't help but think of you. I think about seeing you at X and the obligatory hello you gave with the not-so-subtle vibe that smelled of no-I'm-not-interested--not-even-in-conversation. And then I think of the day and the night of YZ's failure of a surprise—and how my anxiety grew roots all day and blossomed once all of the oxygen imploded—and how not you or any other person who helped plan the party was there for me while I spiraled in and out of hyperventilated sobs, closed behind my bedroom door while my home was full of people—and how not only did none of you check in on me let alone help, but instead talked shit behind my back while standing huddled around my kitchen sink. And how you especially hardcore failed me, when you should've been the one person who cared enough to place your palm on my back. Yes, I realize there was more, but not really. It was all my anxiety. And while you write and perform your knowledge of PTSD on stages and preach about the compassion needed to overcome, you offer/ed me none. But instead look past me with an insulting indifference when our paths align for a night. And whether social media thrusts you in my face or we meet IRL, it hurts despite time passing, cuz you still sexy as hell and I'm still full of heart and always an evolution.