Rose

She was red.

Ripped through my body

with the searing, blazing pain

of a shooting star.

My wish made flesh.

And oh,

how she set my world on fire.

Her face the shade of a plum tomato,

over-ripened, squashed,

Screaming at injustices

I hoped she might never know.

So small, so imperfectly beautiful.

Her footprint forever etched

in my ribcage.

I called her Rose.

Her name crimson like my blood

spilled on that hospital floor.

She pumped through my veins,

coursing through me.

Filling my heart with the beat of her name.

She thrived.

Casting her rosy glow

with each new milestone.

I gathered her achievements

like dazzling rubies,

crowning myself

in her glory.

How she shined!

My cherry-blossom princess,

with her petticoats and curls.

My mantlepiece overflowed

with her medals and trophies.

My heart overflowed with pride.

And then, suddenly,

like a meteorite, she plummeted.

Now her flame burned blue,

Like the blood in her veins,

Throbbing beneath the angry scars

of her sadness.

She was confused.

Her colors muddied,

red and blue blending.

Purple shadows beneath her eyes.

Her ruddy cheeks grew pale,

and the only red left was the dye in her hair.

Which she chopped off.

Short spikes where soft waves once lay,

edgy and spiky like her baggy, black clothes,

like her mood.

Her frustration was flowing lava

beneath a dark, protective shell.

Then, she was reborn.

A phoenix on flaming wings,

how she soared!

Her passion rising as she raised her flag high,

Pink, purple, blue.

Still my Rose, still imperfectly,

impossibly beautiful.

Not she anymore, no more petticoats and curls,

But they, and them,

And mine.

They shine brighter on this side of the darkness,

Spreading vibrant rainbows like hope

with their words and actions.

With their fight.

I overflow with Pride.

My shooting star.

Blazing along their new, true path.

They are red.