Misconceptions of color began 

with veins.

 

I heard they ran a shock of blue as cold 

as my lips when they touched my last lover,

but the anger I felt during the fallout of 

another failed relationship made me certain 

veins burned red.

 

I am grateful for the blood that rises 

to the surface of my cheeks. 

 

I am glorious in my heightened emotion, 

I overflow with the self-righteousness 

awarded from a thousand scars 

in the same exact entry position. 

 

I used to ask myself if I'd ever learn. 

 

I did.

 

My tongue whips with the confidence of 

Hillary in the light of his scandal;

I let my cheeks burn red but this time 

it is his embarassment on display 

and I am 

 

a Predator. 

 

The red of my face no longer calls forth

the bulls.

 

I am the bull, and I have learned the tricks of men.