Blood Red Lately

She stands just 4’11 tall,

but carries a weight that could crush them all.

Half Black flame, half winter white,

born in Trinidad, fading from sight.

Her voice is soft, her smile rehearsed,

each laugh a lie, each breath a curse.

She walks through days in silent dread,

with yellow gone, replaced by red.

Her favorite color used to glow,

like sunshine dancing on her soul.

Now crimson stains her every thought,

a shade of battles never fought.

She paints her lips with trembling grace,

but tears still carve across her face.

She used to dream in golden light—

now even dreams won’t hold her tight.

She clings to plush and stitched-up seams,

to teddy bears and broken dreams.

They listen when no one else will stay,

when friends grow cold and drift away.

She tells her secrets to their fur,

because no human believes in her.

She hugs them close when nights grow long,

pretending they can make her strong.

Her girlfriend doesn’t see the cracks,

the patience thinning, strength she lacks.

She wants to say, “I can’t love you still,”

but fears the echo might break her will.

She writes the words but never speaks,

her heart too tired, her voice too weak.

She loves her still, but not enough—

not when the world feels this rough.

Her friends don’t know she’s shed her last tear,

that goodbye is something she holds near.

She doesn’t want to laugh or stay,

she wants to slowly drift away.

She smiles and nods and plays her part,

while shadows settle in her heart.

She’s fading fast, but no one sees—

they only notice when she leaves.

She smokes to blur the pain inside,

to hush the thoughts she tries to hide.

Her memories slip like grains of sand,

from trembling heart to shaking hand.

She used to hold on tight to hope,

but now she’s tangled in the rope.

Each puff a prayer, each drag a scream,

each night a war against the dream.

Tonight she writes, not to be heard,

but to give her silence shape and word.

Not out of rage, not out of spite,

just tired of losing every fight.

She wants to leave, to disappear,

to silence every doubt and fear.

But still she writes, her final plea—

a whisper wrapped in poetry.

She wrote this poem for you to see,

that she is I—and I am she.

This is her goodbye, soft and slow,

the only way she knows to show.

And if tonight she fades from view,

let love be what remains of true.

Each smile she gave, each word she said,

will bloom where you once feared her dead.