When the red is almost dark, and the rose is almost dead; that is my favorite color.
-Jessie Reyez, La Memoria.
I have given up on love. It’s true. When you see me, you’ll see that I have thrown it out; completely discarded it.
Don’t look at me with those questioning eyes. I know I was quite a romantic. But you know what they say? Often, the things we love too much are the things we are afraid to hate.
Yeah, yeah; we were quite a pair, right? You with your fire, me with my ice. I am deeply sorry that I won.
What do you want me to say? Do you want a story? A bullshit sob story? Is that what you fucking want?
Fine, I’ll give it to you. But remember, you are the one who asked for it.
MY BABY IN RED:
Red, is it not the most deceiving color you have ever seen? Especially when it is dark. The dark kind of red. Aaah, purely aphrodisiac, purely agonizing. What was I to do when he came wearing it? The shirt. The T-Shirt? I do not remember; but how excruciating my desire for him was. Especially when it traced the little muscles he had, and then lit his light brown eyes, and then further, as if it was enough, he flashed that smile at me and looked away; shy.
Aaah, my baby in red. How Could I say No to you? How could I not rip you of those black jeans and then later let you rip me apart?
My baby in red, I blame you for the death of my love for love.
Red, is it not the most enchanting color you have ever seen? Especially the bright one. The bright kind of red. Aaah. How violently seductive. How dangerously powerful. What was I to do when he came wearing it? The jacket. That I remember because it was my jacket. He wore it, nothing underneath. Just Red. Ablaze.
How could I not sing for you? How could I not want to move my body with yours? How could I not admire the darkness that is your skin; so dark, so mesmerizing.
You knew I had another, with a dark red shirt, T-shirt(?); back at home; waiting for me. Yet your ripped hands roamed all over my body, and my face became wet with the thousands of pecks you gave it.
Such a shame that I never got to experience the feeling of you inside me. Maybe later, maybe never.
Red, is it not the most charming color you have ever seen? Especially the crimson one. The crimson kind of red. The way she wore it on her lips as she pulled me closer. How deathly bewitching. Her hands, shameless, inside my trousers. Her mouth, loud, talking to the boy next to her. Her head, drunk, trying to get me alone. Her lips, tasting of keg, inviting me in for more.
How could I not want her when she said, “ I want you.”
All of them; my baby in bright red, my baby in dark red, my baby in crimson red. All of them wanting me, possessing me; all of them releasing my demons from the cage I have tried to keep shut for so long.
One swears I am a god. He says he has never met someone as passionate. Maybe I should tell him the truth. This is not passion I feel. It is blood, red like you, my baby in red, seeping through my fingers, through my mouth, through my eyes.
Yes, I am a god, I do not deny. But I am the god in red. If you don’t take care, it is your blood I will be using to wash away my sins.
Another calls me a narcissist. He says I think of no one but me. The first time he said it, I was marveled at his wisdom. How did he figure it out? And then later when I was cooking for him supper, and when I was holding his head against my chest as he told me of his woes, and when I was being there, trying to love him; I realized, maybe I did not know him as much as I thought I did.
Perhaps that is why I went over to the other one.
The last one did not talk to me much, but she swears my body is the devil itself. She says she cannot resist me when I wear those clothes, and by those clothes, she means the ones that paint me tempting. To her, I smiled. I cannot lie, I find her irresistible, but I had to play my cards right.
She gave me her number and a kiss as a goodbye, and I haven’t seen her since; nor spoken to her. Perhaps she is in her bed right now; writing about the devil she met.
Do you see it now? Do you see why I quit love? How could I still love love after I met my baby in red; the one who calls me god, the one who calls me a narcissist, the one who calls me a devil.
How could I still believe that my heart only belonged to one when all of them took pieces of it, scattering them into the wind, and letting me catch them.
How could I? When all of them I call baby and none of them feel like baby?
Oh shut up. I have heard enough of your story, of your self-victimization. Are you that dense? Can you not see? You do not love either, that is why you think you can quit love.
Tell me, which baby in red has made you shudder with fear of how powerful you hold them?
Tell me, which baby in red has made you stay up all night, waiting for him, with cooked food in the pan; only for him to come home drunk and you to come undone.
Tell me again which baby in red has locked you inside their house and hid the key, just because they were afraid if you walked out you’ll never come back.
Tell me, and do not lie to me.
Remember, I am your heart. Only I know when we can call love quits.