Painted Red.

On the colours we choose to survive in and on the colour that took form in its own.

Red was her favourite colour,

a colour never in her favour.

It flowed down her wrists,

while her soul clenched its fists.

She painted herself red,

not for beauty,

but because sorrow demanded

a language of its own.

Words remained trapped,

while silence burned.

Her fingers trembled,

yet the ache endured.

It wasn't merely a colour.

It was a grave too—

a burial ground

for emotions unheard

and sorrows left unsaid.

She stood in despair,

still hoping to be repaired.

Gathering her shattered pieces,

wondering if healing

was simply another way

of breaking apart.

And when the red finally faded,

she found herself unchanged—

still carrying the wounds,

still wearing the grave,

beneath her skin itself.