by Hailey Neal
Blood. not the color of blood, flesh blood but blood dried spotted linen spinning under twine, dotted polka undies spotted where thorns nicked and you leaked and the sun tasted sweet while you dried
Fruit. not the color of raspberries, fresh raspberries, but raspberries rotted blue moss of decay churning in caverns dense and damp
Bread. not the color of bread, fresh bread but bread soured wet fruit pressed into the pot of soft dough white, wheat, and rhye
Flesh. not the color of flesh, fresh flesh, but serious secret slips inside the wet folds of the body thick tufts of hair cover, conceal,
Lips. not the color of lips, naked lips but altered chemically magnified and bound black vial covers, conceals red cavern pressed into the pot color of nightfall melted wax, squishy
Honey. not the texture of honey, fresh honey but hardened, yellowed, aged you need to press it to warm it
Hailey Neal is a writer and teacher of writers who, in the most aggressive snowbird campaign in human history, splits her time between Beijing and Vermont. She has her bachelor’s in professional writing and her master’s in education. Her work has appeared in From Whispers to Roars and The Closed Eye Open and is forthcoming in ‘The Finger Literary Journal’ as well as Tempered Runes Press. Alarmingly, she had to look up whether to capitalize “professional writing” for this bio. If you find any other typos in here, this is a test.