For dinner I’ll have leftovers.

I’ll eat the silence and the knot.

I’ll feel nourished.

I’ll go to sleep, where I know blue, the inside of its pattern, the folds of its change and mutability.

But this isn’t what I want.

I want to unmake my bed.

Maybe I’ll catch a sunrise, hold it in my hands.

Maybe it will burn me.

I think that would hurt less than this drowning. 

Then where am I going to put my blue?

I can’t hide it in the walls or in a tomb. 

Maybe I won’t put it anywhere. 

Maybe I will find it—in selenium, in comfort, in paint, in womb. 

I want the next world to be red.

I want unfamiliar gesture. 

I want the sky to stretch uncomfortably thin in an attempt to contain its wetness. 

I want it then to fall. 

I want it to cover me. 

I want to wash myself in the newness of red, for I have been so, so blue! 

I thought time itself was blue! 

I want to know red. 

I want to speak my rage. 

I want the end.

I want the red.

I want the sun. 

I want the knot to burn.