People say Red is the color of violence;

I would argue that it is not.

Red is the color of blood.

The result. But not the act.

Black then? No.

Black is the shield,

the strength in the depths of the soul.

Black allows courage despite fear of the result.

Black is not the act.

White is the color of blinding, of Privilege.

When every Shade of light crashes,

One ricocheting off another,

White is the result. White is the act.

A fracture — breaking Life.

As it puts pressure on its surroundings;

I spread myself across it –

Thin as the wings of a fly.

I try to stop the cracks,

the spiders.

But I am just a fly after all

And every inch of it is aching to fall apart.

This is not what I am made for.

A sickening split and I fall –

Inwards — grasping at walls;

As if clinging to them will hold it all together.

How long? It seems indefinite.

After all no No One can take my place.

Is it Life — this?

But what life exists if I let go?

Can I be the martyr?

Does there have to be a martyr?

Everyone is selfish.

Staying here, I am better than them.

But I am not – more narcissistic perhaps.

A narcissist with a backache.

with — Bleeding hands.

Going unnoticed.

My feet slip, calves Straining against the weight.

I cannot be doing this only for myself,

I am just a fly between the walls,

a narcissist with low self worth —

A joke to laugh at.

Because I made it.

My wrists shake,

My body – trembles.

From stress or laughter I do not know.

Nothing is funny.

But everything is a joke.

I let go —

Everything is sound.

– and Quiet – I have never heard.

I thought I had once,

but it was an Illusion –

forged of Smoke and Mirrors –

of Memory and Experience.

Separation – in its loneliness,

with members of Exile.

Stuck together –

Pried apart – no.

Unsettled, unreasonable,

What happens when reason is crumpled?

Pressed upon itself –

layers Touching, skin and sweat.

It writhes. I writhe.

But when did I become It.

Crackles, folds – the air between;

It became Me –

Pieces put together.

perhaps not put – slammed, shoved.

Made into less than before.

Maybe –

Lines drawn in Chalk –

Corners – jagged as Dust;

a Sheen of Normalcy –

White over two tigers.

tip-toe, gentle –

Don’t startle the Cats.

But claws reveal Stripes in spite,

dust mixes; with Blood, with Ink,

to become – bricks –

born of lies. Of Intentions.

Stack them. Quick.

Claws thrash and gleam.

Threatening – Splendid.

hands race in Agony.

Hide from Passion,

run from love.

Dust – more – curls beneath tired feet,

Rising, choking as eyes water.

I wish, I Yearn –

to go to the Zoo.

The claws are mine now –

Scraping furiously to see the cages.

They peel away, nerve and bone

Left in anguish – staining Permanence.

Oh – to be a Cat

How silly! A fantasy!

kept behind bars –

drowning in white paint.