The Shade of Disability

Aren’t photons funny?

They reflect the only light they do not absorb.

Are my wavelengths longer in red, because my energy is every color instead?

Inside my throat I feel the smoke of a volcano ready to erupt.

Anger is always associated with red.

How else is an unhealed, aching, and disabled body supposed to operate and get out of bed?

Anger is a frequency that helps me move.

Red is my least favorite color but it helps me put on my shoes.

Red is passion, red is blood, red is love.

Oh, but the way it sits in me, it’s a color that doesn’t match.

All the colors I am attracted to clash.

Red is sharp, loud, and brash.

I try to soothe it, make me burgundy.

I try to let it go, make me cranberry.

I try aging in wisdom, make me merlot.

I try humbling myself, make me blush.

I try serving others, make me garnet.

I try loving myself, make me rose.

I try to change my shade but the color inside of me shows up on my cheeks, draws attention, and then covers me.

Of course I am red.

I have an Aries sun and moon.

I am fire on fire.

Give me a hot sunny day and spicy soup.

Fire is cleansing. It restores. It renews.

I try to use my heat for warmth and not harm.

I try to use my glow as a light and not an exit mark.

I can be a lot, too much, too hot.

I can be a lot, enough, a good spot.

I am all red, cheeks, lips, and heart.

I am all red. I am all read.