Red Lipstick
I've got a tube of red lipstick –
a cinnamon candle,
burning incense,
and hot peppers.
It beckons to you,
and like a moth to flame,
you go.
It's lust and Mexico nights,
Ruby facets,
A single rose,
and heat in a single word.
Red is lipstick,
and a first-time crush.
Red is the reaction,
when someone makes you blush.
It's life in a blinding rush;
adoration that makes you flush.
It's action,
and power,
a deed,
a feeling.
Anger is red,
pulsating and blinding,
a rage that drives,
and lets you see and do extremes.
Red is fire,
a glowing coal,
it's the pain of betrayal,
and a slap that leaves a mark.
It's emotions:
agony, passion, and desire.
It's how I chose to live,
alive, bright, and painful.
It's the surge of soul,
expressing itself in the only way I know how.
It's fighting the dragon,
and beginning anew.
Red is crazy, wild, and beautiful.
It's heat in a packed club,
where kisses are frantic,
and lipstick is rubbed.
Red is lipstick,
smeared and scalding,
sizzling where lips caress skin,
scorching in little licks of flame.