White lost its virginity
when I saw through
cherry eyes.
The hoar turned to flame,
my portrait, a whore.
Who are you who
gathers the hollyhock
in your secret harem,
seducing them,
petal from petal?
Am I coated in semen
or menstrual blood?
Never mind, my womb
is full, either way.
A new palette emerges
when each hue
is smeared, flushed,
imbued with omens.
I fear the spikes,
blushed knives drawn
from the sun reflecting
on a cracked mirror.
I fear the milk-turned-poison
frothing crimson
at its tenuous surface.
My mother grabs my wrists,
her eyes aflame:
you’re safe, it’s safe, she lies,
nails, cardinal crested.
Then I did not realize
all the time I
was looking through
red glass.
Photo by Jasper Oversteyns on Unsplash
