I Want Red. {poetry}
{source}
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.
***
Raised 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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