Some say it’s blood’s color. It’s not.
Blood is far less pure than what I see.
Flags are vibrant.
Stop signs, dresses, sun burns
and sports cars scream for attention.
But none of this shows the tint I see.
It’s the shade of something else.
Not pain. Not love. Not anger or disgust.
It’s the color of the need.
The need boiling up from inside.
It starts slow, simmers for months, sometimes longer.
It starts with whispers in my ears.
When it escalates, nobody wins but IT.
The bloodbath ensues in absolute calm and tranquility,
for me anyway,
like aftermath of the finest sex
with a great love.
For the Other, it’s all those other