Sangria
Red is the color of my shame, through the ill-taught embarrassment that was bottle-fed to my infant body. Of course, it could never come from the breast. Who teaches a child to feel shame in their body? The visceral reaction I had no words for, through the red heat of my ears, my stomach, causing burning pins and needles from my spine. I began to cower.
Red is the color of my rage, as I traded the bottle-fed hellish red embarrassment into a frightening anguish to the drink of my own blood-infused spit. My jaw had become permanently clenched, the red heat inside of my ears became steam, and the hellbent heat in my stomach became a hunger I could not relinquish. Yet, I no longer wanted to cower.
Red is the color of my ego, a necessary sense of self that reminds me that I am here. I had begun to take pride in the color that had kept me safe. I knew that the color in my veins, ever pumping, ever flowing, was me, me, me, I, I, I. And red is the mark I will leave.
Cover image by Becky Alp