One for performing mainly, but I think it stands up alone.  Part of a series.

It’s Pokémon, pimples and boils.

Being a teenager—including the sores.
It’s Spiderman, Daredevil, Rudolph and GORE
the colour of darkness when your head hits the floor.

It’s nostalgia: 
ell-ee-dees and infra-red receptors on TVs.
It’s blame and physics watching stars burn
it’s the colour of concern when you see your friends cry—
it’s STOP signs, ketchup, Typhoo and HEINZ.

It’s your best friend revealing she’s come of age.
Tampons … towels … it’s impossible to gauge! 
It’s rage and knee-scrape-splatters
the colour of tearworn eyes and all the times
you’ve lusted for guys.
It’s post-boxes, fire-engines and dog-litter bins;
Dorothy’s shoes and telephone-prank-rings 
It’s being eight, not great, just eight, faking a call,
ambulances goin’ nee-norr!
It’s ERROR signs and WARNING signs and
bright lights on aeroplanes
high up there.

Red’s stigma
and all the gay-martyrs that have ever been.
It’s HIV, virility, poppies and war 
lamb’s blood smeared on the post of the door.
It’s knowledge, courage and soul-wrenching guilt
roses, socialism, 
republicans 
and all the guts spilt.

It’s cherries, berries and the colour of blush.
It’s knowing that life’s not just about growing
but being, no rush, 
and being allowed to be.

It’s all the different types of blood
we’re not allowed to give
and the weight of pretending you’re straight
when you just want to live.

It’s Love, I’ve found,
and her sister, Hate.