the color red.

Reading things I wrote about my first heartbreak reminds me that I'll get over my second.

My neice Hazel says: “I guess I was just born to love red, auntie” and has a sister named Violet, who was born to love Violet but says “red is the prettiest color that the sun ever gets”.

They’re ages 5 and 7, which makes their input more valuable than yours - that I also asked for - just after you said that we shouldn’t fuck because it would confuse me and just before we did.

I said: “How does the color red make you feel”?
You said: “I don’t like the color red”.
I said: “why not”?
You said: “I’m just not attracted to it”.
I said: “That makes sense”.

It makes sense because you dumped me for getting so red all the time. You aren’t attracted to anything that makes you feel too much, are you?

Later, you said: “I really do love Cardinals though, despite their redness”.

I really did love you, despite your fleshy-pink disgust with everything sharp in this world.

I bought you a pillow for Christmas, to be ironic, in case your life isn’t comfortable enough.

You aren’t red, but you put me to sleep like red wine, and you don’t like when I whine, or moan, or bite you too hard. God forbid I leave a red mark on your shoulder.

Your favorite pair of my panties are red, despite their redness. I don’t like to wear thongs. They aren’t comfortable for me.

I buy a red one, or two, anyways, for you.

Then, I wax every inch of what I’m supposed to think is beautiful so that you want to look at me- but not for at least 12 hours- so you don’t have to see all that swollen red.

You kiss me then, and tell me I’m sexy, tell me I look like a porn-star, tell me if I wasn’t so fucking crazy I’d be your dream girl, tell me red has just become your favorite color and then tell me how tired you are, and ask me to please suck your dick because my red lips are unforgettable.

They’re also unforgiving, like red wine on white tablecloths or blood in linen pants that you wanted to wear for a second time and just can’t.

A man strangles his wife after fucking her brains out and leaves her in the bed for his baby-sitter to find when she brings the kids home. This is a crime of passion, and the red marks on her neck turn violet over time. I don’t think my nieces would find this color very pretty, but I do.

My face gets this color when the red can’t stay inside anymore, when I can’t fake my way through the rainbow one more time.

I asked the guy I’m using as a way to not think about you tonight, what the color red meant to him. He responded:

“One time I was trading a half chicken for directions and a life story from a man named showtime, and he whistled 'lady in red, lady in red' to a beeeauuuutiful woman in a red dress. She whistled back. Red gives me hope”

I thought maybe he was quoting a movie. I never understood your references, so why would I get his. I typed the whole response up into google. Nothing came up.

xx Monique

ps. sorry for being so indignant and grumpy and heartbroken sometimes, writing it all out helps me not feel it so hard in the reeeaaall world.

happy pizza-prose to come <3