It's like my life has been painted very clearly in front of me—a red collage of blood, fire, and wine.
My body is a purple and black night sky with roses blossoming on my thighs, my breasts, my neck.
My lips open (maybe to scream—maybe to cry—), but I only catch the ash and smoke in my lungs. I'll take this world, this red, red world.
Maybe I am staring at a desolate city, or maybe I'm staring back into a toilet bowl, or maybe I'm staring at my own skeleton in the dirt and the rain.
It's cold here, and the fires won't keep me warm. Whether it's snow or ash falling from the sky, this isn't my home.
So I have to keep walking.
