Amethyst; that was her name,
and that was the shade of her strut.
She’d float down the sidewalk like an apparition,
in high-heels sharp like the corners of counters,
and force the smell of manually-mashed passionfruit to mingle with the cool air.
Click, clack. Click, clack. The heels.
Left, right. Left, right. The eyes.
She was a saccharine mystery.
And her aura smelled just as sugary;
it was like a bowl of ground cinnamon.
But it was all a trick,
for foolish noses and eyes.
She didn’t have a scent;
she had an odor.
Beneath her skin and bones was a,
barely thudding heart
that smelled like
two smoky and crunched up cars
in an evening intersection.
If anyone dared to invite their tongues to taste,
they would taste bitter, bleak gray;
a frizzy storm.
She was a storm.
With the smell of flowers,
but the taste of a
a rusty dagger
drenched in gasoline and black lipstick.
She was Amethyst.
But not a gem, a poison.
A m e t h y s t
Thanks for reading! This poem was sparked by a prompt in my intro to poetry class where he asked us to make a poem with synesthesia. Hope you enjoyed it! Be sure to comment your thoughts below, I would love to hear your favorite poems with synesthesia, and subscribe!