red, inside

entry no. 9 ⸻ on the precipice of something

photo by me. san francisco, april 2023

Sitting down on the edge of my bed, I put my socks on. My socks were red that day. Or rather, I chose to wear red socks. Not long prior, I stared into my dresser drawer, contemplating which socks to wear. The red pair sat at the top of the pile. The center of my gaze: a pool of blood amongst the homogeneity of white cotton. There was no question; I had to grab the red. Did I choose the red because they were simply there? Perhaps the red, in particular, found its way to the top of the pile for me to see. For me to see and then choose. Ah, that's most definitely it. I decided to wear the red socks that day. I saw and I chose. I choose Red, I choose Red. I choose. I, I, I.

At the time, I would have worn red socks every day. Not for fashion, not for convenience. Not for anything, really. Red socks felt right. Red felt good on my skin. Red burned. It would burn through my skin until it reached the marrow, where the red inside meets the red outside. A pool of blood. A pool of red. As soon as the red fabric touched my skin it became fused to my body, fused to my being, my essence. We were one thing: me and this red, or this red and me. I am not sure which feels more right. 

Red was vital, but I found, at times, Red was viral as well. A parasite that sunk its teeth straight into me, making my red its own. When I found myself in the clutches of Red's isolating grasp, I was unsure where I ended and where Red began. That's right, that's right. Didn't I say we were one thing? I suppose, then, questions of ends and beginnings are not particularly relevant. We are or we aren't. I'm writing this right now with white socks on. So I suppose I must say, we aren't anymore.

I stepped outside and felt the air trace the perimeter of my face like a fingertip to the skin. The atmosphere could have drawn my portrait by touch. The air was just warm enough to where I couldn't feel the weather. I think it may have been the best I'd ever felt. Red and I faced that day in unison. That day, we were. Yes, without question, it was the best I'd ever felt. I showed the world that I existed in a state alongside Red. The entity, which then became composed of Red and I, made way for a type of pleasure that had been unknown to me until that very day. Until I put the socks on. Until Red found its way to the top of the pile. Red beckoned me from the dresser drawer — an echo had filled my bedroom and body. Red's voice. Even now, I can hear it so clearly. The voice revealed in my environment the hollow chambers surrounding me. When I first heard the sound, I felt it coincide with the beat of my heart. Red was my mirror. If I moved with Red as one, could that make us one? Or would we always remain two separate entities? When a piece of yourself exists outside your body, is it possible to ever merge two things into something singular? But the pleasure, yes, the pleasure, was unlike any sensation I'd ever felt. 

Trailing along rather aimlessly, I happened to find my way to a bench in the park. 

The bench overlooked a field of grass and flowers poking up from shrubs. Ivory, lavender, magenta, chartreuse. I wonder if there are colors we cannot see. Are there colors just I cannot see? I took a seat and surveyed the small world happening just before me. There were couples lounging on blankets, children chasing each other around and around and around, a runner passing through. Their conversations and laughter floated up and dissipated into the atmosphere, lost for no one to hear but the air itself. The world is a sanctuary in that sense. It holds every little thing we do and say and share and remembers it for us. We will forget. Oh, of course, we will forget. But the world will not. That is the best part. It can also be the worst part. 

I remained on the bench for hours. I couldn't find the courage to get up and move on with my day. I knew the world would remember me sitting there, on that bench, at that time, accompanied by Red. But still, I knew if I left the park, I would never return. I couldn't ever return. Not out of my own desire or lack thereof but because the park, as it existed at that exact moment in time, would cease to exist the second I left. Every bit of it would be inextricably different. As would I. The leaves would wither and die. The flowers would lose their petals. He loves me, he loves me not. The grass would die, blade by blade, into a gradient of greens and browns. There will be a night one day, when the white appears and takes over our whole city. It would cover each and every inch of the park, turning our small world into an empty canvas. The white would be earth’s delicacy delivered unto us. My skin would grow pale as the sun crawled into its hibernation. My hair would grow darker, longer. My heart would shrivel and then burst and take various forms between those two ends. 

It wasn't courage that got me to move, but the cold. The sun fell back behind the horizon and a chill blew in, bit by bit, then all at once. A final gust cut my skin, and the last sliver of sunlight grew thinner and thinner until, eventually, it disappeared. A dome of darkness surrounded the bench. I was still sitting in the same position, though I knew I had to go home. My feet were still warm, just barely — kept safe in Red's enclosure. I shut my eyes and leaned into the warmth that resided just within my feet. The hairs on my skin stood straight, and the center of my chest ran cold. My fingertips were numb, I couldn't touch. I couldn't touch, truly, anymore. But my feet are still warm. Yes, there is a bit of me that remains just warm enough. 

At some point, I mindlessly got up and walked home. I do not remember the exact moment I left that bench and small world, but I do remember the warmth that burst through the front door upon returning home. A few weeks prior, when my mother had come to visit me, she’d hung up a mirror in the entryway, just opposite the front door. She had complained that my walls were too blank. But the night, the one with Red and the bench, I returned home, and after being initially inundated with the warmth, I took two steps forward to find and found my own face in the mirror's reflection. All of the lights were still off, but I was able to make out the outline of my face in the darkness. On the walk home, frigid and rushed, my eyes had adjusted to the lack of light. And so the darkness wasn't necessarily dark. Darkness is relative. As is levity. A glint of moonlight came through the window to my left, casting a slight shadow on the right side of my face. Still, in the darkness of the room, I found the contrast. I was able to identify the high and low lights of my face. The bridge of my nose was bright, the skin where my lip's shadow fell was dark — looking a bit like smeared lipstick. I peered down to greet Red. There was something missing. Where had Red gone? Yes, in this moment I surely felt Red's presence, but without the brightness, Red's warmth seemed to have turned gray, and so, upon that realization, I believe it was there where a piece of my heart collapsed into itself. I fell forward and reached my hand out to catch myself. My palm hit the mirror and landed right where the reflection of my chest lay. Along with the movement, there was a crunch swiftly after my striking. Beneath my hand was the epicenter of a network of cracks and crevices that turned the once singular, large mirror into many little slices. After regaining my balance, I removed my hand from the mirror. I felt a bead of something trail down my wrist and forearm. Then a droplet precariously clinging to my elbow. I took a look at my palm. There were high and low lights of my skin — the center of my palm was dark, and my fingertips were light. Jagged lines of light and dark transformed my palm into a canvas of spontaneous splatters of paint. Of paint. 

I fell to the ground. I could no longer bear to stand on my feet. I ripped Red from my body. Holding Red in my hands, my blood soaked into Red's cotton fabric. The red inside meets the red outside. I could see it then — the moonlight was shining on my hands. I could see Red. Red's warmth. Red was pooling on the ground beneath my hands. Red was burning, burning my skin. I always thought Red felt good. But the pain... the pain. Red is burning me. I think Red might be hurting me. 

I got up. I moved towards the sink to rinse my palms. I left the socks on the ground. I would have to throw them away later. I let my hands run beneath the faucet, leaving them there until the gray turned clear, and my hands were simply my hands. I still felt the Red's burning, but Red, or all evidence of Red, was gone. Without the light, without the blood, without any of it, Red could not make its presence known. And then I was truly all alone. That was why I always chose the red socks. Red was — I mean, Red is my heart. The socks were the means through which I accessed Red. Who am I without my heart? Without this steady, all-encompassing love for one, no longer in my life? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I without my love for him?

The red inside. That is who, or what, rather. My very being is synonymous with my heart. My, my, my. That is all it takes. If I am with myself, it is impossible to be alone, truly. I am accompanied by all of the separate pieces of my singular body. I am many and one. Little slices of this one large thing. As long as I sustain my red inside, then the love will exist, or persist, and it will always endure. The Red is always there, in the darkness or in the light. Within or without. The Red will be so big that it bursts out of my veins and splatters bits of this love all around me and so small that I may forget it even exists. But it will never disappear. No, no, it could never disappear. 

That is the Red. That is the Red inside. Inside of me.

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Thank you very much for reading.

With love,

Kailie