Spinning faster, a jewelry box ballerina.
Charge up the teeth of the ladder.
Charge admission by the square inch.
There’s something maddening about the silence.
and she rotates in a violent dream.
There’s paint on her clothes. The iris was an accident.
Red across her lips like a kiss that never crystallized.
Pages fluttering, feathers never ink-dipped.
Charge down a collapsing hallway.
Charge your mind for the madness.
It all comes back to the moon.
Sarah Marchant is a St. Louis poet who organizes her dreams in her sleep and struggles with being fully present. Keep up with her work on Twitter at @apoetrybomb. Based on the passage above, Could you paraphrase the line "Red across her lips like a kiss that never crystallized" in Sarah Marchant's poem?
This prompt doesn't seem malicious.