red’s infuriated,
red’s angry when he can hear his breathing.
the clanging pipes above keep red hot.
red hates things for doing what they’re meant to do.
red had a shotgun to his heart,
the pellets turns his face white as a bone.
they left a gaping hole.
he bled red until the roads he walked
were paved with dried mud bricks.
he bled out, and yet he walked.
red loves irony; he hates love.
red would bleed out just to scream inside.
red knows love’s near violet
(red loves grade eight science humour).
grade eight is when red loved himself last.
every year red got redder,
and the world went green and yellow,
and pink and turquoise.
red still stands out,
always stands out.
they can drown red in a volcano;
they’ll see lava boil red.
maybe that is it.
maybe red thrives in pain.
red’s only got red around him all day,
he’d rather embrace the night than not be red.
when the rest of the colors bleed someday,
the city would have more brick roads,
and red will have his company.