“Infection and Ink”

i sit on the floor of the bathroom,

staring down two barrels

and contemplating the growing pain

between my eyes and numb tongue

as metal pushes to meet metal

through my skull.

i choke on my words as tears

and vomit gushes from my mouth,

staining the tiles yellow.

i cannot decide whether to write with yellow pen

or to write with my own pen

that is every color of the rainbow,

though i know the color

that makes up my skin

is the color

they expect me to write in.

i sit on the bathroom floor

and listen to my head throb

from the promise of bullets.

 

“Remission and Remedy”

so i decide to write in yellow.

this is easier,

i explain to my gaunt face

as it stares at me

like a stranger in the mirror,

because there is only one barrel now.

my head no longer aches

from the push and pull

of two strong arms,

and i am now marked for

Being Heard by Them,

and isn’t that enough?

my voice is still mine,

i scold as tears and dirty sink water

run down my face,

even if my poems

have to look pretty

and my words are wasteful.

my worry lines and feverish hot haze

are erased by cold water and salt

as i drain the yellow from my skin

into a marketable bottle.

 

“Intoxication and Indecision”

i wax poetic in yellow ink

until i choke on tar

that tastes like toffee

and rushes to fill the bathroom with bile.

i spit mouthfuls of yellow

into the sink–

yellow from the crushed bones of an artist

hiding in my bloody lungs

who was given the choice

of contorting into two boxes:

one washed in white,

and one in yellow.

she chooses yellow every time,

wishing there was another box to choose from

(because no matter which box,

white or yellow,

she is surrounded and defined by colors).