I stand alone
Under a lone spotlight.
A bright red rose
Clenched between my fist.
I stand there and smile,
My lips the color of roses.
Like delicate petals
Masking the blood-stained thorns.
“Be strong” they tell me,
When I feel myself begin to shake.
“Be loud!” They proclaim.
When I can’t seem to speak at all.
“Be powerful.” My mother hisses,
As she does my hair up tight.
As I stare into the mirror at a reflection that isn’t mine.
I don the only color I know.
Red.
Red is strong.
Red.
Red is loud!
Red.
Red is powerful.
Red is the color of blood.
The same color that I watched circle my shower drain.
The same color I painted onto my lips countless times.
The same color I watched drag across the floor
Shimmering in the stagelights.
Shimmering enough to hide the tears
I wouldn’t dare let flow.
The woman in red.
Delicate.
Pristine.
Draped in the color of roses.
Until I decided not to be.
Yes, red is the color of roses.
But also rubys.
And fire.
And hot, burning rage.
Rage I felt at being shoved in front of crowd.
Paraded around in flashy dresses and skirts that were
A bit too short for a 9-year-old.
Rage that a 17-year-old girl felt
As she screamed into the mirror
“Why can’t you just be happy?!”
“Why can’t you just be normal?!”
“Why can’t you just be pretty…?”
Rage soon turned to sadness.
To depression.
To nothing at all.
Red fades to black.
Black.
The color of the lake that fateful rainy day.
Black.
The color of the baggy clothes that replaced my once colorful wardrobe.
Black.
The color of ashes after the flames have died.
Here’s the thing about fire.
Those red flames.
The black ash.
They work together in a way.
They form the base for what is needed for survival.
To reignite the flames.
To spread.
And rise from the ashes I did.
Black erupts into red.
I am red.
The color of the fire I wear.
I am black.
The color of the ashes of my past.
A perfect mixture of the both.
Red is the color of roses.
But I am not a rose.
I am fire.
And I will burn you in my wake.
About the Creator
JoBeth Eddings
I am an amature writer who has been published once’s before with a poem. I write scripts and short stories as well as poetry. I hope to one day write a novel.
Keep reading
More stories from writers in Poets and other communities.
This Land
Companion Preface This work appears in four movements, not as revisions of one another, but as different ways of standing on the same ground. The first speaks with grit. The second listens for what still opens. The third braids what was once held apart. The fourth offers a vow—small, human, unfinished. Together, they trace a walk rather than an argument. What changes between them is not the land, but the stance of the one walking it. You may enter at any point. You may linger where something recognizes you. Nothing here asks for agreement— only presence. — Flower InBloom
By Flower InBloom8 days ago in Poets
Super Bowl LX Recap: A Team Called Hawks
Sixty. The Super Bowl turned 60! Still amazes me that this was the sixtieth Super Bowl played in NFL history. It seems like yesterday that I watched Super Bowl XXVII, the first SB I ever watched. The QB who won Super Bowl XXVII has since called a few SBs, and will call next year's game, but that's another story. Super Bowl LX took place at Levi's Stadium in Santa Clara, California, the home stadium of the San Francisco 49ers. However, it was one of their division foes who represented the NFC, as the Seattle Seahawks faced off against the New England Patriots.
By Clyde E. Dawkins5 days ago in Unbalanced
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.