It was the color covering my newborn skin the first time we met.
It was the color his face flushed deeper as the bottles drained dry.
It was the color of the yelling splattered messily on all our walls.
It is the color he always painted his knuckles with another man’s face.
It is how hot the whiskey river rapids burned floating down his throat.
It is the flame of anger in his tone,
When I realize my father is the dragon, not the prince.
It is the blood pooling on my limbs while I try to carve out the past from my present.
It is the bloodshot morning path in his eyes trying to tell the story of last night's black out.
It is the color of the sirens saving us by taking him.
It is my hot and sweaty face wide awake from another nightmare.
It is the rhubarb in Grandma's pies on the days she kept us safe.
It is the color of my heartache, mourning what I never had.
It is the passion that drives me to be better than my Dad.
About the Creator
April
I've loved reading and writing for as long as I can remember. I feel the most content holding a book while laying in the sun. I'm the author of a poetry collection 'Lungs Like Elephants'
@lungslikeelephants
@lemondropinkshop
High Rise, Deep Impact
I have witnessed a death that I relive every time I step into an elevator. Although it no longer affects me as deeply—given that it's been 11 years since the incident—it remains a heart- rending memory from my first and last day as a paramedic. My initial call to the scene involved a man who seemed to have fallen down the elevator shaft of a high-rise building. Alternatively, it might have been that the elevator moved upwards while he was working on it. Different scenarios were being considered when I arrived.
By Penelope Henain5 days ago in Writers
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