by Olivia Johnson

It’s red

The blood is red and the bruise is black and blue and red

It’s red

And I have a thousand tiny holes on my fingers like a thousand tiny bee stings

Except a bee doesn’t die, I do just a little more with each prick 

I am a mosaic on a wall

I am blue and black and red and my tears are crystal clear

I am color thrown together 

I am holes and nooks and crannies that this illness seeps into 

I am tiles smashed and sharp edges 

I am a mosaic on a wall for everyone to gawk at

I am artwork that was not meant to be

I am blue and black and red all over 

I am the beginning of a joke with no punchline

I am purple where the bruises heal

I am yellow where they’re almost gone

I am polka dotted and striped both at the same time

I am clashing colors and patterns 

I am red and I don’t even like red