march calls me sober.
consciously in touch with all that I call my own
and all that knows me through my phone.
march calls me healthy, clean.
and grateful for all the sharp twists and hits or misses
that brought me here.
forgiving and forgetting isn't white like light before dispersion
or the static on television.
it isn't dark like the typical megalomaniac brooder
or black like the colour of my scooter.
it is red like the hickeys on your neck's nape;
red like the bull fighter's cape.
it is blue like waves anew;
blue like that boy who loves you.
I guess what I'm trying to say is
march may call my lipstick a gorgeous red
and my insecurities a gorgeous dead,
but I wish forgiving and forgetting were as easily done as they are said.
