"He was red. I am the burn."
I tied the ribbon. I made it perfect.
I made sure it matched my dress.
Red lace—gift-wrapped love, like a warning sign in cursive.
And yet, no one saw the teeth behind the bow.
I left notes in lipstick, all under his pillow.
They smelled like perfume and sounded like obsession.
I knew he'd read them, or pretend he didn't. Either way,
I was under his skin like a stain.
Some girls keep photo albums. I keep metaphors.
Like his name, written in red ink,
bleeding through four pages.
Like love, except louder.
I didn’t love him.
I loved the feeling of him—how limerence made the gray world blush.
And when he left, the gray stayed, but the blush didn’t.
That’s why I made it mine.