Red.

A cruel person? I never thought of myself
As painted red. Yet now, I feel it. In my blood.
Red.

So many years of hiding, being terrorised.
Now I am the terror. For just a moment.
To a girl who is already stained red.
Dyed with a blood red spattered knife
She cut my flesh with. So many years ago.

Now I stand and hold my own knife and slice
Her fashionista cheeks. I show how strong I am.
How I now hold the scars of her knife
And many others to the light.

They are as opaque as my flesh itself.
Hidden. Present, yet invisible.

I have more papers to my name. More words.
More red ink ticks. Fewer red ink crosses.
I am better. And I take my own knife,
Calmly. Without hate. And show that I have won.

I sit here and wipe clean my blade, her blood
Staining my fingers.
I didn’t mean to be cruel. I didn’t mean to hurt.
Yet somehow, as I showed myself to be different now
Than I was then, I smiled to myself, teeth between lips.
Painted red.