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there's something obscenely beautiful about the colour red. 

it's shock and danger, lust and passion. it's loud, angry, full of rage. it stains and spills and dribbles, drips, falls and puddles like a bloodflow, unstifled. it spreads around my shoulder blades like a pair of crimson wings, and it blooms like a wonderful carnation right from the centre of my chest. 

there isn't a single bit of pain. not a prick, not a sting, not anything at all. i can't feel a single thing. i can't think, either. i can just look at what's happening around me like i'm a spectator, not the main attraction. 

people's pupils blown wide and their eyes flown open like huge windows, their hair mussed around their heads like scrambled halos. their phones rest in their hands and they jab at keys that tinkle noise, and some point, and some scream, and some stare around like maybe they'll turn into bloody angels too. 

my hair sticks to my face, white strands between my lips and in my eyes so my vision's streaked. and my lips are cracked and chapped and spotted, sprayed with the blood coming from my middle, and if i could move, if i could only move, i'd wipe it away. 

i can't. my legs and arms are frozen in position, pinned into gravel and grime like i'm a show butterfly hung up in a glass cage for people to find interesting. 

and i'm not really interesting, not really at all. i'm usually rather dull, kind of strange, kind of sit at the back of class and wait for someone to realise you're actually there... just not today, okay? today i'm beautiful. today i'm colourful, blushed like rose petals. today people see me, realise they actually loved me. today i'm made immortal as the girl who was the colour red.

today i burn

i didn't always want to end up like this. in fact, i rather didn't fancy it at all. death's black and pale grey and coffin dust coloured, and death's cold and dark and completely, utterly, naturally silent.

but not my death. not mine. mine's a burst of fireworks long due. mine's loud so ears bleed and mine's the picture you'll never forget. mine's scrawled in red ink like someone wrote me a love letter too late. 

if you're looking for a performance friday night, this was the one to see. you'd have got front seats cheap as dirt: seats down in the dirt of the subway; seats on the pavements edge by drains and gutters; seats in passing cars and seats in nearby houses' windows. you could've filmed the whole thing and not got sued for copyright. 

you might've been the one i smiled at before i fell. that'd be a pretty story, wouldn't it? 

we didn't see the flashing lights and two sweaty, white-knuckled hands at a wheel. we didn't see, and we didn't hear, and we couldn't smell the stench of a cigarette tossed out a car window before the entire thing was upon us, did we? 

tickets might've been bought for nothing if i had seen, if i had heard, if i had smelt, if maybe i'd looked left a little quicker and scampered into the next lane. or maybe it wouldn't have made a difference. maybe i'd have run and been knocked down anyway, and maybe'd it'd hurt more, maybe i'd even cry, maybe i'd scream like the onlookers did just louder, crueller, more deserved i guess. 


but i didn't, did i? i just stood there, got hit, fell right down and hit the ground with a thump and the car skidded and the driver wailed and people began crowding in a semi-circle around me too afraid to come close

as if death could contaminate, and i felt it, and i don't know if that's even possible, but i felt the blood like it was the realest thing i've ever known and it was hot and it was thick and velvety and the colour of all the beautiful things 

and i let it seep through my clothes and through my bones, and then i just stopped feeling it



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