Blush

It is never-ending in that the blush is the blush and the second glance is the surmise of their hatred for me. In that there is a hold on my throat as hands in the throes of passion, but my choke is a little too tight. In that:

In that I have always been a lonely child, saying the wrong thing at the right time, or was it the right time to say the wrong thing and I would say it right? How was I to know? How was I to know what to say when the blush is the blush and I swore the eyes could see inside, where it is not blush but blue, and when it is not blue it is black, and just sometimes it is the purple of the Storey Bridge as I drive across, alone, hoping that I crash.

In that when I try to explain the words, they flake away like my skin red raw every Sunday afternoon. I use too much Benzac you see, and it stings when I cry, and it stings just the same when I promise myself there are no tears in my eyes. If I cry, I feel how in the same way the blush is the blush, the one-night stand is a lover. In that the girl with the tattoos is a lover. In that the boy who is only good for chasing after a ball is a lover. In that the friend I sleep next to so peacefully – is she a lover? In that:

In that I am becoming a lonely adult, walking into and out of parties speechless. How am I to know what to say when my r’s trip from my lips and fall as w’s. I yearn for words that betray the blush that is becoming more than blush. In that I am talking, and people are listening because I am more than what my mind makes of me. But I am not for words and the words I say to the lover, who is no more than a number, and to the friend, who is no more than a chance encounter, are not spoken to them but to myself, as it has always been. Hush, I say, it will be okay, but it is not okay.

It is never-ending in that perhaps the blush has always been more than blush since my mother first cried alone, as she cries alone now, and we both blush, but hers is so much different from mine. Her story bridge is not purple, and I dare not ask what colours are inside. I envisage green as our first letterbox, numbers 7 and 3 hanging like her voice on the phone. In that I can answer the phone because she taught me so, but she did not teach me how to soften this blush that is so much more than blush.

This blush is the same hues of the sky just after it rains. In that it is the same hues of the inside of my mouth and when I press my skin so hard when I try not to cry, it turns white and as I let go, it mellows to blush. In that I am scared that I am too strong and if I press too hard as it turns to white, I do not have it in me to let go. In that:

It is never-ending in that the blush is the blush and I am myself a lonely old woman, surrounded by blush as I drink it alone, hands at my throat, as it has always been.