Misconceptions of color began 

with veins.


I heard they ran a shock of blue as cold 

as my lips when they touched my last lover,

but the anger I felt during the fallout of 

another failed relationship made me certain 

veins burned red.


I am grateful for the blood that rises 

to the surface of my cheeks. 


I am glorious in my heightened emotion, 

I overflow with the self-righteousness 

awarded from a thousand scars 

in the same exact entry position. 


I used to ask myself if I'd ever learn. 


I did.


My tongue whips with the confidence of 

Hillary in the light of his scandal;

I let my cheeks burn red but this time 

it is his embarassment on display 

and I am 


a Predator. 


The red of my face no longer calls forth

the bulls.


I am the bull, and I have learned the tricks of men. 


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