Writing The Rainbow: The Senses of Red.

I wouldn't wear red lipstick for the longest time. Oh I bought one every year since I was 16 and there was nothing concrete stopping me from from wearing it. Yet I was reluctant to even rub it onto my lips in the darkness of night when there was no one around to witness my audacity. I had no idea what I was holding on for until the night I was dressing up to meet my very first client. And by client I mean the first person to ever pay for the business venture that was my body. 

All nervousness and trepidation washed away as my lips flashed scarlet and the girl in the mirror turned to whore. I was sexy; in the turn of my fingers as I curled my eyelashes, in the heaving of my chest as knocked on his door, in the clacking of my heels as I walked towards the bed. I'm pretty sure it was the lipstick; that night he could feel *my red*. 

She'd throw things at me often and that it was a 6-inch stilleto she chose to throw came as no surprise to me. It hit me on the side of the forehead with the ferocity of a silent call-to-arms. She walked out of the room before it fell to the floor; before the blood followed in a steady stream painting its course through my parched lips. All fear and sanity disappeared as life formed a puddle before my eyes. I was fierce; in the strange buzz I felt that compelled me to lick the blood off the floor, in the daunting walk that carried me outside the door, in the harsh words that fell like corrosive acid from my mouth onto the tapestry of our relationship. I'm pretty sure it was the blood; that day she could hear *my red*. 

I bought that light-bulb on a whim. I was only there to purchase a replacement for my extension cable when the the impulse to have a red-light in my bedroom overcame me. I never got around to installing it. Not until she came over to my house for the first time with her guitar and the determination to play for me. She saw the bulb lying in my bookshelf and put it into an empty socket without waiting for permission. 

I was enthralled; by the soft, unnatural glow of the light, by the deft movement of her young fingers on strings that turned to magic, by the fierce growls escaping her delicate throat to fall like soft moan onto my ears. I'm pretty sure it was the light; that evening she could see *my red*. 

I don't care for flowers. Not like that; I like them growing in bushes and on plants but I don't care for flowers being brought to me as a sign of affection. Until the day he brought me a whole bunch of red roses and served me the stems and thorns. He didn't hand them to me or speak about them until they were ready to use. 

I was aroused; by the harsh sting of the thorns as they rubbed raw against my skin, by the broken irrelevant petals that lay strewn so carelessly all over my room, by the faint ripples of blood that made their path into the drain. I'm pretty sure it was the roses; that day he could smell *my red*. 

It was the ruby on the plain silver ring that he never should have bought me. His reasons were two-fold; to satisfy the irrational notions of protection propagated by his family and to show me I could be pretty adorned in credit-card conversions. I was enraged; by his supposition that he could trick me into silencing fascistic forces, by the audacious attempt to buy me with something so pedestrian yet expensive as a rock, by his attempt to solidify our commitment by measuring it on a scale I did not understand. 

I'm pretty sure it was the ruby; that night he could taste *my red*. 

Just come a little closer than you should; I'm pretty sure you can *sense* my red.