I am a fresh bruise, mottled under skin and tender to the soft touch of a fingertip. I am painted by angry hands, by sharp edges, by painful accidents. I only exist where I should not be.
I am danger. Raging red and melancholy blue melt together to birth the hue of my thoughts, unnatural and yet mesmerising all at once. I am the softness that lures you in, and the violence that traps you.
There is poison behind my teeth, edged to sink into your skin; to bleed my colour into you. It will bubble beneath the surface, will rush to darken your veins.
Look into my smile, and you will find fangs.
About the Creator
Mackenzie Lee
Writer, poet, editor.
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson4 days ago in Fiction
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