my mother is an expert on red. she has worn every shade; consumed it all.
my father is a barber at night. stealing my mother's hair; consuming her. he made the strands a paintbrush.
my father is an artist; brush of my mother, paint of his blood, he colors me red.
I look like him, they say. he sees himself where he wants to see my mother. coat me in red until I am her.
I was six when I understood. how ripping off the band aid hurts more than the cut. how skin is left red and raw where security once stuck.
I was forever and I didn't understand. life is not fair, but neither is death, and what is left inbetween?
roses, to me, were always sad. they were anniversaries, apologies, and uncertainties. they were 'I love you enough to have someone else hand you flowers that someone else grew.' they were 'I hate you enough to make you watch us wilt.'
my mother is always anticipating. christmas songs started with november. jolly stockings and deceiving lights. red and green make brown. they make cinnamon wax spilled on the carpet. they make coffee on sofas and shattered ornaments against the wall. they make ugly hope.
I was fifteen when I looked down and saw how red my hands had turned. how brush strokes covered my skin. how my cheeks were not rosy, but crimson. how my eyes were not as young as they should have been. when the panic in my chest split me in two. I do not want to be red. his blood and my blood are made of the same. I look like him, they say. god please don't make me be red, I will cover your dreams with my sobs.
my mother is an ocean of red. painted by a man who thinks love and pain are the same color. I do not know how to scrub my skin clean. I do not want to be red, but I don't know how to be anything else.