by Mariem Mohamed
tw domestic violence
Red satin sheets, crisp on a red, heart-shaped bed, discarded in a red-wallpapered room in the Love Motel, abandoned in the neon glow radiating off of the desolate Route 15 Washington State highway.
Crimson red blood dripping from split open knuckles, gushing between red-tainted fingers, desperately pressed over a broken nose.
Scarlet perfect petals spiral down from a dozen lovingly-wrapped red roses, casting cherry-hued captivation as they fall. A ruby card peaking out that reads, “I’m sorry. You mean the world to me.”
A deadly carmine haze descends upon them before they descend upon you. Vivid red wine droplets splattered across pure white, forgotten in the foreground of devastation.
When did red become the color of love and the color of anger? And when did it become okay for people to say, “They didn’t mean it, it’s just because they love you.”
Even if your heart pounds in a scarlet fevered pitch when you remember the red hot pain of passion. It had to be passion because you don’t think it was love that could have fueled those riotous duels of expertly-aimed, blazing-red barbs hurled in crimson bright succession.
Love is pain. Passion hurts. Sometimes your throat becomes a reddened ravaged thing at the mercy of the scarlet pitched ardor of indecision because sometimes you can’t seem to decide if you should be screaming “I love you” or “Help me.”
Red gilded blows shoved upon you by the one you love. “Is this my fault?” you ask yourself, in a carefully blush-wrapped whisper.
“It’s my fault.” Becoming a blinding vermillion squall of blame rooting you in self-destruction, as the agonizing untamable flame of love leaves you raw and aching inside and out.
But could it ever really be your fault when love and anger are both inhabitants beneath the same red-cloaked deception and passion is both an engulfing desire and an erupting emotion. It feels so good and yet hurts so bad.
The calm after the storm is the softest garnet and scarlet flaming kisses are pressed softly around where it hurts. The carmine-cradled pattern goes on and on until your heart turns into boundless vermillion-dripping puzzle pieces that you can’t quite seem to make fit into a whole.
But, remember, the good days will never outweigh the bad. Anger will always triumph in the claret-hued battle of love and passion.
Remember, your will is the freshest ruby-red of the strength of a Phoenix rising.