By Frankline Shem O.
They dress red in silk, in candlelight whispers—
(but never in open wounds, never in stitches beneath sleeves.)
They call it just a color, a shade of romance—
a kiss stolen beneath city lights.
I call it the ink of self-harm,
the language of razors against skin,
the hush of pain swallowed whole.
They call it passion—
(but passion doesn't scar.)
They call it warmth—
(not fire, not fever, not the sting beneath bandages.)
Not roses, but ribbons—
bitten lips and bitten wrists,
unwinding beneath the weight of silence.
Not love, but a ledger—
tallying wounds beneath the skin,
a debt only silence collects.
Red lingers—
not in love, not in survival,
but in the space between.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem