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