red paint and metallic tongues

she was always like this.
she was five and begged to paint her walls red
not pink or blue
but red.
they painted them purple.

spent years screaming until her throat bled
and people told her they loved her rasp,
made jokes about how much whiskey she must’ve drank
but she was afraid of the bottoms of bottles.

slammed doors to be heard
just like her mother.
filled her ear canals with cement to be deaf
just like her father.

she reeked of cigarettes but never smoked
bargained with the devil but never won.

ripped the heads off of the dolls who stared too long
and mourned them at their burials in the front lawn.

she was always like this.
she was born a bitch, bit her mom’s nipple and giggled.
bit the tongues of men until she tasted iron
in hopes they would finally stop trying to swallow her whole.

she cursed the wishing wells and her fingertips’ wasted eyelashes
god forbid she found the genie–
she’d shatter his bottle.
god forbid she met god–
she’d remind him what red smells like.

k.r. taylor (she/her) is a radiologic technology student with poetry seen in The Weight Journal, Teen Ink, Dead River Review, and The Somerville Times. Her poetry never steers clear of the uncomfortable, but rather tends to thrive off of it.