Meh. Don’t love this one, but I like the concept, so it’s going on here. Notice how I don’t actually say the word red in the whole piece of writing? You would have thought it anyways.
4
The colour of bloody knees and scraped elbows, falling off her bike and band-aids.
5
The colour of silly secrets and pursed lips, mistakes and punishments, and a swirling childish mind.
7
The colour of the words being thrown like weapons downstairs while she cowers, hanging onto the railing, watching them clash angrily in the air before her.
8
The colour of her cheek after she misbehaved, waves of heat and humiliation radiating from her face, the colour of a silent promise to herself, “This is the last time.”
10
The colour of the whispers heard from her pillow, hours after she was supposed to be asleep, furious and weighted, hearing the same words again and again, “But what about them?” and knowing they were never really asking.
11
The colour of her puffy eyes after the news, being told again and again not to tell the other, perhaps to make certain she picked a side, the wrong side.
13
The colour of sunsets and slow adjustments, frustrations and wrathful words flung like bullets in the midst of a war.
14
The colour of passions and lips and flushed cheeks and unwanted roses, the colour of heartbreak and feeling smaller than ever before.
15
The colour of the words written in bloody ink, emptying the hurt from eyes that have already seen too much, felt too deeply, cared too much.
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