Volcanoes Arin Klein
I’m trying to write an essay about how colour confines being how colour has sound and smell and traps sad little creatures like Geryon and me in our sad little bodies Instead I’m staying up cross legged at my desk writing poetry about how roses are trapped in red and I’m trapped in the colour of my stomach eating my chest—wait, no, it’s my chest that’s starving I think my heart swallowed me all up so I’m shrivelled and shivering on my bedroom floor And the oatmeal is boiling over like lava on the stove
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