Wet lilies rest on the Pontiac. The tarmac is coated in ivory grease, like spilt French fries on the driveway. But underneath, it is red. Maroon like wine. Carmine like the powdered beetle-crushed and squashed between my nails. All the ivory in the world cannot consume the red. It reverberates and bleeds into the dahlias that grow near the grass. The petals divulge secrets:
Who were you in a dream? Who were you on the tarmac? Who are you now?
The police come. They look at the greasy tarmac, the lilies, the Pontiac. The red.
The dahlias bear teeth–
Do you remember how it felt when the whole world smelt like blood?
