The Vermilion Witness
The coat’s too bright for this place—
vermilion wrapped around
a girl who hasn’t blinked
in hours.
Her eyes are warning lights,
green like currency
or envy,
depending on the angle.
You’d think she’s cold,
but she’s just waiting.
Waiting for the next collapse,
or kiss,
whichever gets there first.
She doesn’t ask questions.
She’s already got the answers—
stitched into her collar,
splattered across her cheek.
You try not to stare,
but it’s already too late.
She saw you.
And she’ll remember.
