Amnesty

Painted Delilah's, scarlet sirens, apples and bloodshed- 

You tried to teach me to fear the bold obscenities of Red, to be a willing captive within 
conventions of virtue and the expectations that came with my gender and station.

I learned to speak softly, in shades of anemic pink but my tongue was never far from 
hemorrhaging.

I resisted the riots building within, but with each aspiration I found myself closer to the 
consequences of containing fire; the blisters in the wake of passions, the residual footprints 
left on the tip of my tongue by the spirit of my own fire.

I'm not a red woman. I’ve never gone looking for Red, it came to me from somewhere inside 
and I swallowed it, afraid that it would blossom in my mouth, uncurling one petal of fire after 
another until some great demon-flower crawled from between my lips to seduce my fate with 
a brimstone damped tongue.

I couldn't choke on my voice forever, so it has manifested itself through my hands, through 
my poetry. My fire has found amnesty and burns silently so that you do not have to hear 
what I need to say. 

My words may be stained red but they have not slaughtered any lambs or stirred an 
apocalyptic sequence of events. 

I cannot live without breathing, even if I would like to aid your comfort… and so, I breathe 
through my fingers so you might enjoy the silence and company of your own red-blind 
convictions.

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