Paperinkwine

If we were written sentences, I’d be three letters. NOT. I can still taste those three letters. N, creamy white, and so smooth. Tastes like paper. O, black like motor oil. Tastes like wet ink. T, horrifyingly red, but with purples so bruise-like, I’d call it wine. Tastes like a vineyard, bitter and dry. Blurs the edges. We are written sentences, standing before the bathroom mirror. B-R-I-L-L-I-A-N-T reads your reflection. N-O-T reads mine. I am a termination, the end. “Well it’s NOT cancer, but we’re NOT sure what it is.” “I’m NOT in love with you anymore.” NOTNOTNOT The only colours in my skin are N O T. Paper, ink, wine. You’re the colour of a birthday cake, and I’m NOT.