Left on Red

2:36 a.m.
I’m left on red
alert with frayed nerve endings,
singed synapses that keep simmering
until anxiety burns them out
and the acrid taste of shame
coating my tongue, befouling the hope
that nearly blossomed into poetry
Red is desire, red is danger, red is
stop, because he made romance a game
I’m not equipped to play
Red is a lacy sundress
Red is the blood pooling in his dick
Red is the climax
this story is not permitted to reach
because in the end,
he’s just another callow boy
with the audacity
to reduce me to an option
and left me
on read