Crimson

I am the color of roses, valentines, love. I am the color of anger, war, intensity. I am two polar opposites. I am the delightful blush that graces a child's cheek, as a happiness that is stranger like dances through their eyes; effectively melting a mother's heart and putting her mind at peace within the same millisecond. I am the color that haunts your mother's nightmare's and every waking second. I am the color that triggers her crippling panic attacks. I am the color that stains the inside of her innocent eyelids, never leaving her retinas. I am the color she wishes to wipe from her memory. I am the color that dripped from your wrist as your life dripped out of you. I am the color that she can't scrub off of the bathtub wall without breaking down because she can still see the body that she birthed and raised laying there with empty eyes and a cold body. I represent the memories that she still can't scrub off of the porcelain, no matter how pearly the lining. She can still feel the terror and disbelief that wracked her mind and penetrated her soul as she gazed at your still form with an uncomprehending that no one could have the audacity to wish upon someone, let alone a mother. You may not have thought your plan through effectively enough, however, because when you left that day, you took her with you. And as she buries your mangled body, she remembers the crimson that lit your cheeks and heart afire when you were eight, and the crimson that signed your death warrant when you were fifteen. The reinforcement of the fact that red is two polar opposites is a bitter irony indeed.