Your skin was leaking color you said
and for you it was pouring out like ink
into clear cold water seeping into the pores
of the basin and tumbling out your eyes.
And you could hear them, hear all that faded
turquoise and sable pooling on iron—tumbling,
slipping beneath you like a lover’s fingers.
Once you scratched a bone to the marrow
just to prove you could. Skinning things,
knowing their true colors you said
that was discovering the soul of a thing—
knowing you could reach deep enough
inside yourself and pull out a red poppy
and no one could tell you it wasn’t what it was.
You always had the sense of always
falling. Leaping from scaffolds you put it
plummeting off cliff sides into so many
shades of blue you didn’t know what to do with them—
falling, dipping so far beneath your skin
you couldn’t even breathe it in.