You are not black and white, you are all of the colors my sky can't bleed.
A foreign exchange, contrived scarcity.
I will pour gray matter into your framework.
I will manage extremes and draw out your bruises.
You will hold my wrists back from ripping them open.
Then, gently, and in tiny circles, draw on my skin until the blood finds the surface.
Watch how that crimson can glow.
That innate theory.
That organic matter.