If

If I were a color, I’d be somewhere between deep purple and magenta red, puffs of anger enhancing my darkness.

If I were a word, I’d be rivers of profanity, starting with fuck fuck fuck, fuck you you fucking motherfucker.

If I were a fruit, I’d be a bruised peach, from the imprints of you on me and the hardness of your grip beginning to jade my core.

If I were a grammatical mark, I’d be a comma, for all the run-on sentences due your way; question marks are unnecessary when the answers are pointless.

If I were a car, I’d be leaking fuel near the ignition, a flash yet incendiary, just a blaze still simmering under the hood.

If you were a color, you’d be putrid green, muddled and confused, wanting to run free when you’re better off mixed in with vomit.

If you were a word, you’d connote the essence of dumbed down intelligence, a fine “huh?” to you too.

If you were a fruit, you’d be a watermelon, indecisive in your patterns, swollen with water and little else in terms of substance.

If you were a grammatical mark, you’d be an ellipses for all the things you assume without digging deeper to find, deceptiveness the key to your reality.

If you were a car, you’d be the runaway offender, uninsured and unready to play the game of truth.