Yellow

It's a sharp thing, sweet and sharp though - like the brittle lemon sunlight as it pierces your chest and and acid rinses your eyes. You try and walk across the room as if someone hadn't seen your cavities as a reasonable place to store their cache of broken glass and snapped off blades.

Somewhere private to catalogue your trophies.

When your stomach decides to show you what it was hiding it's an unexpected revelation. Slumped on the toilet like this, you make some feeble attempt to snap open your thighs and direct this sulphur stream between them. Mostly it just splatters across your knees, hot and bright. or drips thickly from your hair - luminous, golden, the yolk of some immense egg. Scorches and scrapes the back of your throat - like swallowing lit matches.

Shake your hand and there's a vibrant arc across the wall.

Then you're coughing - scratch and ugh - try to stifle it because something threatens to give. Whatever maintains the difference between inside and out seems feeble and compromised. A delicate blind of parchment or preserved human skin drawn tight over a bright window and the light fizzes out - like a cigarette on the slick, wet skin of your belly.

You retch again. Something insignificant splashes on the floor. Resting your cheek there you notice a few strands of radiant yellow hair caught beneath your fingernails.