a rainbow of rust
I looked at the words I’d spent a year exsanguinating. There were rivulets of loathing—a rainbow of rust—but there was a smattering of red and yellow and green, too. I thought the capillaries would become rich with prismatic brilliance now that the murk had been drawn out. Now’s your chance, I thought. Now you can be beautiful.
Oh. I see.
I’m still bleeding. It’s gushing, it’s burst—it’s slowed. It’s stopped.
I looked inside. It’s a hollow cathedral. It was all I was.