Red Walls

I always hated the white walls,  

their silence pressing down like fog.  

So I dipped a brush in rebellion,  

drenched the emptiness in bright red.  

At first, it felt like a drumbeat,  

like fire had replaced my lungs.  

The color screamed when I couldn’t,  

spilled chaos where I craved control.  

But soon, the noise turned unbearable,  

each glance like a fist to my chest.  

I wanted to claw at the walls,  

peel the crimson off with my nails.  

Homicide danced in my clenched fists.  

Suicide whispered softly at night.  

Until I found myself, a shaking bird,  

perched on the edge of a couch.  

The therapist’s calm voice pressed gently,  

like waves polishing a sharp-edged stone.  

She told me, "Let's paint the sky here."  

and handed me a pastel brush,  

Blue now spills soft across my bedroom.  

The ceiling stretches quiet as an exhale.  

It’s therapy soaking into every corner,  

a balm stitching jagged edges closed.