The Shades of Rouge

Nineteen. A cracked mirror reflecting a stranger in this sterile shoebox they called a dorm. The air hung heavy, thick with the stench of yesterday's failures. "Not her," I clawed at the silence, but the echoes skittered off hollow walls, mocking my defiance. Memories flickered like a gruesome home movie - a child hacking at bangs in a desperate attempt at self-exorcism, hair christening the unforgiving tile in tear-soaked baptisms of solitude.

My own Roman Empire in ruins, the weight of expectation a suffocating crown. Evil? A question first, then a truth so heavy it pressed the oxygen from my lungs.Loving him was a twisted prayer whispered into the neon hum of the night. A plea that he wouldn't see the monstrous hunger gnawing at my insides. Did his touch ever reach the real me, or was I just a ghost haunting his narrative?

Red bled to a dusty auburn, a faded memory on a forgotten canvas. Nineteen, three hundred and sixty-two days, the supposed expiration date. Stupid pills choked on a pathetic overdose, waking to the mocking laughter of a forced sunrise at twenty. A phantom catheter, a cold reminder of a life almost silenced. Celebrating felt like a foreign language, a melody I couldn't decipher.

Failure, the mirror sneered, a broken record on repeat. Easier to drown in the silence, but that's a voicemail for another time.Purple now, a crown of shattered amethyst. Hair brittle and fractured, a testament to the battles fought in the labyrinthine corridors of my mind. Yet, there was a defiant glint, a perverse beauty in the brokenness, a bittersweet serenade to the ghosts that clung to me.

Paint fades, baby, a truth etched into every sunrise. Love too, a cruel masterpiece chipping away at the edges until nothing remains. Maybe the voices in my head were a cacophony of rockstars, cranking the self-loathing to a deafening eleven.

A piercing, a middle finger to the storm brewing behind my eyes. Wabi-sabi, my aunt's gift whispered, a gold ring promising to mend the cracks with something beautiful, a rejection of the sterile perfection I craved.Mom, a board exam charm dangling from her wrist, a hug laced with unspoken worries. Anklets, a goodbye present from grandpa, a reminder of impermanence etched in silver. Dad showed up with earrings and a nose ring, two days after I tried to vanish in the sterile silence of that dorm room. My roommate on her bed, oblivious to the war raging inside me, as I swallowed pills to quiet the deafening screams.

Color bleeds with every wash, a slow surrender. Red hair dye, unlike paint, leaves a phantom limb, a permanent stain even after burning your hair to ash. Blood may be thicker than water, but love's a fickle flame, flickering out in the cold. Scars wear a mask of new skin, a fabricated peace treaty. But me? I'm still raw, the truth a secret code tattooed beneath the surface.

The hair though, that's my battle cry. A wildfire of crimson as I stalked the halls, a desperate plea for recognition in this sterile existence. The pretty girl with a nicotine addiction and hair cascading down my spine – a love story lost on the college breeze. Love fades, like the ink on a polaroid left forgotten in a dusty drawer. New skin, once a canvas of hope, now a faded photograph. My arm, a tapestry of fresh pink scars.

Hair, a rebellious shock of purple, shorn short, a battle flag waving in defiance. Color fades with every wash, but red remembers – a burning ember glowing even in the ashes. A reminder, a whispered promise: I'm broken, yeah, but I'm still here, bleeding into a future I can't even see.

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