Life is like an old film— 

grainy and silent, black and white.

Red was the only color that stayed for me. 

Not love. 

Not passion. 

But pain.

It showed up in my thoughts, 

in my skin, 

in the things I used to escape. 

Everyone has their own shade of red. 

Mine was sharp. 

Mine bled.

They said I’d grow out of it. 

I didn’t. 

I just got better at hiding. 

Better at pretending. 

Better at bleeding quietly.

Then something shifted. 

Not a miracle. 

Not a cure. 

Just one thing. 

Art. 

A sound that didn’t judge me. 

A film or photo that didn’t ask why.

A design I can relate too. 

Each art form gave me a piece of color to mix with the red. 

Not to erase it.

Just to soften it.

Art didn’t fix me. 

It gave me a place to bleed without hurting myself. 

A blank page.

A sound. 

A way to say “I’m still here” without screaming.

I still feel gray most days. 

But now I know how to add color. 

Not always. 

Not perfectly. 

But enough.

​

Enough to stay.