the red:

a disease, a name                

at my cheeks like an aunt I never

liked. Kisses my lips,      stains me, 

doesn’t put me in the washing machine.

I am some kind of new territory.                

I squeeze at my face, and dead white fish      

Turn to crimson, then—           

and I do my best to hide their carcasses.                  

My mother calls it habit. 

My father calls it problem.

I call it something fairy-tale:                    

No one seems to understand

the body doing              

My hands have become            

always looking for bumps            

until regret has a rubbing alcohol sting.

I always promise myself,                      

But hands don't listen. Hands don't know                      

Sometimes I wonder if this can be classified as anything