I want to burst

with RBG,
and be one of those songs
you can’t get out of your head.
I want my hair

dyed RBG,
and walk down your halls,
laugh at your jokes.

Take a snapshot.
Take a bite.
Take a break.
Take a life.

I want my guts to

glow RBG,
because my red crayons
are worn down to stubs.
They are, in this

order, RBG.
I’ve seen them swim in circles
and save the world on AM television.

Take my hand.
Take my food.
Take my punch.
I know he would.

So, world, why aren’t

you RBG?
I am the latter;
my skin is so jealous.
So basically,
I want to be—
want to BE—
red, blue, green:

RBG.