xii. Stained Glass Memories

A Poem

By Carissa Pay

Pink.
My father planted
cherry blossom seeds
into my arms when I was young.
My mother taught me to hide them
so I kept quiet about the tiny flowers
growing down my sides.
I pinned prayers to the walls
of my room.

Blue.
I can still taste the
sting of veins
against my cheek.
Salt and blood.
I choke on the sound.

Green.
What was the colour
of his eyes again?
I don’t want to remember.

Yellow.
Morning.
The sun hides behind my curtains
and I pull the blanket over my head.
The screaming suddenly stops
and so does my breathing.

Red.
Salvation in blood.
I grew up with it splattered
against my skin, is it any surprise
I fell in love with the colour?

“You don’t really talk about your childhood.”

“Honestly? I don’t remember much. I don’t want to.”