Crimson Speaks

Crimson fled down that little girl's arm in streams. It spoke on her thighs.

I didn't know what to do when that little child showed me her crimson secrets. I was a child too. And what is a child supposed to do when she thinks about bleeding crimson too?

We all questioned what it would be like to see that color bite against our skin. But only she knew where to buy the blade, how deep to cut, what the line looked like between crimson streams and a crimson sea.

That little child spoke to me. I didn't do anything.

I didn't know how to moisten my mouth or choke up the words, the right words, the wrong words, any words at all, and all they said was eat the ink, take the test.

I was thirteen, looking for the words. Looking at a photograph of her crimson anatomy. Closing my eyes, barring my breath, sailing my finger against the waves on her wrist. We sat at the swings because we were thirteen. I didn't do anything.

Now I see that little girl in my sleep. She looks tired. Worn from piercing the skin, feeling the warmth drip onto the tub, patching her wounds, cleaning it up. She looks tired from showing her scars, from hearing silence nest in my open mouth.

I could tell her what the ink meant, when the test was. But that wouldn't stop her crimson from leaking. Never had I seen a color that sharp. Never had the ink taught me what to do.

I see her flesh in my sleep.

I feel my words suffocating.

All I taste is the ink.

And what is a child supposed to do when she thinks about bleeding crimson too?

When she knows skin should never be opened, but that crimson speaks.

Though, crimson spoke to me, and I didn't do anything.

Published in Brushing Art & Literary Journal 2023