Writer's Notebook

[nessieq]

Red was the first color you learned.
You watched, every day, as your mom painted
last night's war on her lips
before she spent the rest of the day
pretending the flesh underneath her cheek tint
do not feel sore.

Red swam through the cracks of your mother's lips
every night
because despite years of practice
she still hasn't learned
to turn her face away
to avoid the roll of punches.

Red was the color of the stain
you washed away as you gasped in horror -
your rite of passage.
You looked at your mom
and asked yourself "Will I end up like her someday?"
You tell yourself you won't.
But you're not quite sure.

Red was the color of the shirt he wore on your first date.
Red was the color you saw
when the first blow hit your skin.
You tried to leave.
But he hugged
told you he loved you.
told you it was your fault.
You believed him.

Red was the color you used cover up your shame.
You told yourself
that if you paint a red smile on your lips,
like your mom did
they wouldn't be able to tell you're in pain.
You knew you weren’t fooling anyone.

Every morning, like a sad ritual,
as you gazed at yourself in the mirror
you cry a little.

You blame your father
for teaching you
that this was the right way to be loved.
You blame your mother
for never learning
how to leave.
You blame yourself
for growing up to be just like your mother.
Red was the color you chose to wear.
And while it killed you inside,
you strut it like it's a ball gown.