La Poésie de la Lune

by bearsbeetsbattlestargalactica

I never understood exactly what that word meant. Beauty. What was it that made someone beautiful? Full lips, wide eyes, sloping cheekbones, flawless figure? But how did someone define flawless? How did they rank someone on a scale of one to ten based not on their mind, not in the beauty embedded in their veins, but in their skin? (Now an ongoing series!)

2. Red

A/N: So I got favorable reviews for the last poem I wrote (thanks so much! You guys are the best!) and because these poems take me, like, fifteen minutes at most, I think I'm going to make this a series of poems, all Lunar-Chronicles-themed. Anyway, thanks again to reviewers, and keep up the feedback! (God knows I could use it!)

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Red.

My favorite color is red because it is a powerful color,

one that requests—demands—attention and notice.

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Red is a dangerous color, the color of anger, the color of blood.

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They say that in the first world war, so many years ago,

they would sprinkle bits of lime over the mass graves

of dead soldiers to disguise the smell of decomposing bodies,

of sadness, and the only thing that grew after the lime

had been sown, were poppies, bright red, vermilion

and crimson and scarlet, just like my name.

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Despair was sown where the red poppies grow.

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My mother named me Scarlet, my hair is bright red,

I am a power color, I am a thunderhead,

I am stronger than I look, and a spitfire to boot,

so when you look at me, size me up, from the tips

of my bright red curls, to my bright red cheeks,

to my bright red spirit tucked into the folds

of my rapidly beating heart, do not make the mistake

of underestimating me, my worth, who I am.

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Because I am despair, and anger, and blood.

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I am fearless.

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I am

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Red.