Red Without Sight

Red is the wet of an open wound. It's slightly warm with pain about the edges, that pierces deeper once necessary pressure is applied for healing. Some say its taste is iron, while some may just call it raw like beef before it's cooked.

Red contradicts itself. It is the flash of heat that covers your face when anger takes hold, and simultaneously the flush on a face full from the first signs of love. It can manifest as the butterflies in your chest or the knots in your stomach, both with their own depth and intensity.

Red is the rose. Red is the blood. Red is the raging fire. Red is different things to different people, but red is me.