The Rain On Monday

Written words are the only thing my mind can find ease in.

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45. Red

A red crayon met your paper when you were just three years old.

Your mother hung the artwork on the refrigerator.

And that’s how it always was.

A red marker stained your test when you were just eight years old.

Your mother never hung the failure on the refrigerator.

And that’s how it always was.

A red certificate engulfed your eyes when you were just twelve years old.

Your mother never hung the award on the refrigerator because you never showed her.

And that’s how it always was.

A red waterfall escaped your vein when you were just seventeen years old.

You hung a note on the refrigerator for your mother, unraveling it all.

And that’s not how it had to be.

 

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