In the squishy pink jelly where my pain is stored
along with all the data,
like your face with the start of crow’s feet
when you smile
or the musky smell you exude when you kiss me,
in that pink jelly
I store the facts of the matter.
And, the matter of the fact is this:
I cannot continue at this rate of pain
under these circumstances.
The gray matter, which is truly a horrible pulsating
pink, will not last much longer
under these conditions.
The jelly is aquiver
Electric messages firing at rates
faster than I can calculate.
The pain is a spear
thrusting brazenly through all that pink
matter, that tender, helpless jelly.
Have you ever stabbed Jell-O with your fork too many times?
Nothing left but juices.
Nothing left of me,
of my pink jelly,
but the facts of matter, and
What do you think of when you think Pink?