By Helena Rutan
In my life
Nothing is linear.
Nothing with angles.
Like red Jell-O flung from a mold, half-set.
The painting drips crimson confusion.
An explosion of blood and gore.
What is my melting point?
Set! Me! Ablaze!
Only never put me back in the fridge.
Maybe I'm a beautiful, abstract rose.
That Somebody Else is painting.