The Color of Blood

by Mona Kabbani

If the torture of never being able to truly know, to accurately express oneself, drives one to create.”

am a blank canvas. A nothing person. A void that can be decorated and designed but never filled.

I wish I could tell her all the ways her mere existence destroys and rebuilds every cell of my being. The foundation I’ve erected my life upon. How she sets my soul on fire.

She sticks her tongue out and I ponder how much pressure it would take to bite the muscle off. If I could use her own teeth as a paper cutter.

And the thought passes me so sweetly amidst this world-shattering violence: If I am a void, then she is utter totality.