By Anansha Almyan
I’m afraid and so full of love. So full that it’s bursting through the lids. And I haven’t been in love for so long. I’ve forgotten what it’s like or maybe I never knew. So I bleed. Onto pages and pages until they’re all dripping red. I’ve always wished for red to be love but how could it be? It’s destined to hurt. Tacky, deep, red hurt. Love is bright yellow. The kind that calms you down and puts you to peace. Love isn’t scary red. We make it to be. We want it to be.
Because we’re all afraid. We want it to hurt because how else would you explain all the pain. But love isn’t red. It’s yellow. It’s the sweet summer smell that spells joy. It’s everything and it’s nothing. But it isn't hurt, it isn’t bleeding red. I don’t know love, yet I am so full of it. And so it manages to sneak out and trickle on everything I touch. I was afraid before. And I still am. Which is why I write. Because if not then what else? I write because I can’t die.
By Anansha Almyan
Comments