I wore red: a pristine red dress with velvet trim and a
matching bow. They told me I was pretty.
I wore red: a softball uniform with stains that would never
quite come out. I felt like a badass.
I wore red: a bikini that was bigger than what my friends
all wore. They shoved me into the pool.
I wore red: a camp counselor T-shirt marked with sweat. She
kissed me and I felt different.
I wore red: a sweater that clung tightly to my curves. He
taunted me and poked at me.
I wore red: shoes that squeaked through the halls. They
called me a geek and laughed.
I wore red: a notebook that I clutched tightly to my chest.
I felt the anxiety washing away.
I wore red: a blouse that was too big in places and too
tight in others. They didn’t notice me.
I wore red: alcohol that stained my lips and tongue. They
said I was more fun.
I wore red: a Halloween costume as I sipped my drink. He
assaulted me.
I wore red: a hoodie as I navigated the snowy campus. They applauded
when I crossed the stage.
I wore red: an embroidered top that matched my skirt. He
fell in love with me.
I wore red: a blazer that echoed my professionalism. They
told me how efficient I was.
I wore red: colorful confetti that landed all around me. He
asked me to marry him.
I wore red: a striped pencil skirt and black tights. He harassed
me.
I wore red: lipstick that I had never worn before. I said I
do.
I wore red: crazy socks that came up to my knees. They said how
fun and cool I was.
I wore red: a plaid shirt as we walked around the
store. They all wanted to touch my stomach.
I wore red: my blood as my daughter came into this world. I
told her how pretty she was.
I wore red: my hair, the same hair I had all my life, the
same as hers. I told her I would protect her.
I wore red.
