I wore red.

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.