A Life Lived in Red.

Instead of the one with the pick-up truck and carrot colored hair that ran over 
          my ginger cat. 

Cute, candy apple red dress with the multi-colored buttons.
Ronald McDonald brand found at JC Penney in the mall.

He said I’d look like a hooker, I didn’t know what that was—I was six. 
          Here, baby, I bought it for you anyway, my grandma whispered
Conspiratorially. 

When he saw me in it, my bloodied stripes matched the color of my dress.
Splotches filled my face, and my eyes were rimmed the same. 

Sweet, watermelon juice running down my chin and neck, staining my t-shirt pink.
Sticky. Satisfying. Memories.

          Summer. 

Grandpa and I devouring piece after piece of refreshing fruit. 
Grandma’s faded red flyswatter swinging for eating the treats for her bible study  
         gossips.

Ugly maroon stain in my panties = Relief. 
Last among my friends to experience this moment of triumph. Transition. 
          On my way to becoming a woman.
Pride. Pain. Red. Emotions. Tears. Pain. Red. The stain won’t come out.
          Humiliation mars my face as I wrap a sweater around my waist.

Vibrant homecoming dress adorned with a red rose corsage. My first time wearing  
          ruby lipstick. 
Cheesy music plays while sweaty teen bodies sway back and forth.
Surrounded by red and silver balloons, he slips his hand up my scarlet dress.
He reminds me that he paid for the expensive spaghetti sauce I ate for dinner. 
          I owe you nothing.
The color flares in his cheeks as I shove him away. 

My friends and I sucking down raspberry gummy bears and Cherry Cokes.
Strawberry ice cream sundaes; wondering 
          how much longer our cherries will last.
          Who would you want to share yours with?  We ask.
As we debate the differences between Twizzlers and Red Vines. 

Crimson numbers illuminated on the clock radio swim.
He continues to force himself inside me again and again.
           tearing through my innocence with callous viciousness. 
11:04 am. 
           I should have gone to school today; it’s time for English Lit.
The flow won’t cease. It’s been three days since he forcefully deflowered 
          me. 

The pain. The shock. The nightmares. 
Red numbers floating around my room as red pours out of me.
Red envelopes me in its searing grasp of trauma and brutality.
          If you didn’t want it, why did you wear that little red thing? 
He asks.
Slapped speechless by the audacity of his words, my face blossoms. 
          My tank top?  A tank top caused me to be ____?
Guilt, transgression’s color, and shame’s shade deepens 
          I just want to escape. 

Every time another piece of innocence dies red absorbs it.  

No longer a relief. 
No longer a sign of triumph, but instead a sign of My defeat. 
          Not this month!  It screams at me for the eighth month in a row.
Try, try again, is what we will do. Robots on this fertility train.

My screams take on the hue of the liquid dripping between my fingers  
          as my baby girl slips from my womb to the bathroom floor.
Death. Death before life can even take a breath.
Bloodied-tear stains on my cheeks  
          as I bleach a floor that is ruined forever. Marred with my failure. 

An angry scar across my abdomen reminding me that my uterus is gone. 
Sliced away and thrown in some medical waste trash can.
                    (Aren’t those red too? As a warning, right?)
          What good am I as a woman with no womb?
Flames lick me on all sides 
          The forever hell of menopause at 
                    twenty-six. 

I sit 
At a red light and wonder
                    Maybe I should just go anyway.

Radio alarm clock numbers dance before my vision, crimson still. 
          Why am I here?
 

Red                                slips down as I slice
          Red                               dyes the water that is pooled around me
                    Red                                as I swoon
                              Red       as I give in 
                   Red                             as I float away in bliss
         Red                               as I choose to no longer exist
Red                               death. 
 

Red lights and blaring sirens.

Burgundy bible with my grandma’s name scribbled inside the cover. 
                              Between the red words I find stories similar to my own.

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Editor's note

If you or someone you care about is thinking about suicide, please reach out for help.

• Call 911 in life-threatening situations

• Call or text the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline at 988 (para ayuda en español, llame al 988). The Lifeline provides 24-hour, confidential support to anyone in suicidal crisis or emotional distress. 

• Reach out to someone you trust, like a family member or friend.

• LGBTQAI+ youth can find help at the Trevor Project.

• Veterans can call the Veterans Crisis Line at Dial 988 and press 1. or Text 838255 
  You can also visit their online chat service for support 24/7.

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