Heus
by Corbin Underwood
I ate a box of crayons today.
Red burned, sharp as blood,
stinging the back of my throat—
anger too fast to catch,
too raw to hide,
too jagged to swallow.
Blue crept in, slow as dusk,
carrying the weight of something unsaid—
a deep hum,
a whispered ache,
the quiet pulse of a heart in bed.
Green tasted raw,
unripe fruit,
sour in my mouth,
tight in my chest—
the ache of a distance that can’t be crossed.
Yellow melted on my tongue,
sunlight that’s lost its
spark—too soft,
too fleeting to hold,
but I tasted it warm,
a half-remembered song.
Purple was dark,
heavy as regret,
sweetness turned bitter,
forgotten.
A muddled mix of colors I cannot keep—
if my voice had color,
could I paint the picture
still lodged in my throat?