i realized you could never be a painter,
because you could never get the colors
right. the passion dripping from your
chin like crisp watermelon on a
summer evening, or the blood
slashing your sheets in time
with the tide, tracing
crescent moons
up your thighs.
it indeed was a fool’s errand:
could you coat your lips and
laughter in sunset blush, but
swallow down the flames
that’d lick the canvas?
or suck on a strawberry jolly rancher
and nothing else til your stomach
shrivelled to the size of
a cherry pit?
or polish and click those shiny
heels like a dolled-up dorothy
to get to your oz?
or, even glow like a licked
cherry on an ice-cream
sundae,
but
shhh,
quiet
blend away trembling
palms with those
silent
soothing
blue-greens?
(because doesn’t acrylic paint wash out without stains anyway?)
so, you really did stuff yourself
up: with hello kitty bows and
tinted lip gloss, with roasting
embers of lonely nights spent
too close to the milky way, with
all those frowning ruby ravines
creasing your stomach that do
not goddamn belong there.
plugged yourself up with all those
moist rose petals inserted in your
mouth — your only chance before
they, you,
wilt.
you stuff it up, shove it in,
and pat the corners of your
lips clean with a dainty
handkerchief so you won’t
ever bleed anymore.
now, i don’t bleed anymore. i wield
no palette, only moon, gray, and tear.
like a desert, but even dusk knows
to drown the sand dunes in crimson.
everything in and nothing out, nothing
comes barreling out like the blinding
river styx unleashed to flood away,
let rust the oh-so tender fingers and
burning autumns and close breaths
and magnifying glasses that brand
my skin like cowhide.
you have no choice
now, but to fight fire
with fire: any spark
you can muster.
i’ll nurse tiny flames, light
small temples in the night
for you. i’ll set a bonfire on
the scarlet glitter, fahrenheit
decrees, and feverish embraces,
send smoke streaming up to mingle
in the supernovas of stars past.
strike, strike, strike again
that match, til your hands
are marred with leathery
amber calluses and
softened by baby pink
peaches that fill my belly
and stretch you whole.
maybe,
you’re not
a painter.
but it’s enough to smear cloud and war
paint on your cheek, close that bloodshot
eye, and let the arrow cut through your
thumb and strip through the air with
wound as its escort. you’ll miss the
heart, and i will bleed for it.
because i’ve shot down nine suns,
but you could never shoot down
the last one.
~~
In Chinese mythology, there were ten suns that would take turns lighting the Earth. One day, they decided to all come out together, scorching the planet. Hou Yi, a skilled archer, saved humanity by shooting down nine of the ten suns, the last one remaining to maintain balance and life in our world.
Harvard College ‘23 | instagram: @_peachyvanessa_ | facebook: vanessa.hu.566