I look like a red maraca
shaking and moving, making a rhythm
I am the soft sound of a
meep, or a yelp, or the hitch in someone's breath
ripping the silence where a pin drop sounds too loud
I remember the fear of the black box
I remember becoming it.
I remember being it.
I remember quivering hands
And slippery cheeks
And lungs gulping for air
but I let go.
I am a beanbag
slowly losing its form
I am comfort
I am the smoky, polluted, heavy air
Covering the sunset that belongs to 3.073 million
I am the ray of warmth that never fails to pop out
I am red
and everything in between.
I am all of it at once.