lemon laprete ; d1 - cb

I wear red the day they take my home.

Angry like the flush in Mother's cheeks. Warm like the weeping gashes on my knees where I'd fallen from the tree in our backyard. My brother wasn't home yet, so I sit on the front step and tell them we'll have to wait. My arms and legs crossed tight, like I could turn them into roots.

When they throw me onto the station's platform, I cry until my eyes are red too.

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I wear blue as the bruises fade.

Everything is smaller in the new house. The lights flicker and the walls groan, the wind creeps through the gaps in the floorboards but my only jacket is pink.

And I wear blue until the bruises fade.

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I wear yellow on the days the man with the lion mane visits.

Mom's passed out on the couch again, snoring so I don't have to check if she's still breathing. I know I'm not supposed to answer the door, but he has kind eyes and brings groceries every Thursday.

Once he asked me how I have so much yellow, and I told him I have so much everything. There's a hole in my leggings, but neither of us mention that. Instead he tells me another story about his son and his daughter and I close my eyes and pretend their life is mine.

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I wear black on my birthdays.

No one else remembers them. There's fifteen candles and a scorch mark on the curtains where they caught fire.

The box cake didn't cook right in the microwave, but I don't have another. Crumbly on the edges and mush in the middle, it still tastes better than fourteen did. I was supposed to learn how to make frosting this year.

It was my brother's job to sing, so it never sounds right when I try. Off tune, broken apart in the places words catch in my throat. By the end of the whole affair, I'm too exhausted to remember I'm supposed to make a wish on the candles I blow out.

It's a good birthday.

Or, at least it wasn't the worst.

Which is what I would have wished for anyway.