Red Colour by Kateryna Moldakhovska

I feel trapped in my desire

to be loved, and my trap is red. The thing I always wanted was to be liked, to be loved, to attract everyone’s attention. And I tried so hard, yet it was unsuccessful.

The first time I started doubting my sexuality was at the end of my 9th year at school. I dyed my hair red when I come to the idea that maybe, just perhaps, I’m not straight.

On Valentine's Day, I went to my friend’s house. We watched cartoons and studied together. It was late, and her room was dim red with the garlands. I was looking at the photo of her from that day so many times, I could easily draw it from memory.

My buddy had long, curly red hair. When we met, we were in my city. She told me about her girlfriend on our walk. When I came to Kyiv, and we all met near the academy, her red hair was the only familiar thing in my new life.

The first girlfriend I ever had was a bit younger than me; her hair was short and red. She was warm and passionate, she taught me how to care for people. I wanted her to think I’m beautiful, I started wearing red eyeshadows. She reminded me of a poppy field. Her hair dye had washed out when we broke up.

When I came to my dormitory in the summer, I met a new friend. Her hair was long and red. My heart skipped a bit every time I saw her. I ignored my headache when we were walking, and she was telling me about her family, all I wanted was to listen to her talk. Cherry tea was her favourite, I started liking seeing red in my cup every night.

Next year, I started wearing dark red lipstick. I wanted to be noticed, to be seen. That time I met a new girl and I knew we could become great friends. We were together all the time, talking, cuddling. I decided to just leave myself be, stop caring about all the things around. It felt like I had a full-size drum inside my head because of the intensity of my heartbeat when I dyed her hair red.

It was cold outside when I was looking at the photo of the girl, I rarely talked to because of how bewitched I was by her appearance. The day I believed that I was good enough to talk to her, and maybe we could become closer, become friends, her hair was dyed red.

For me, red is the synonym for exhaustion. It seems, the trap will never free me, I’m sinking in something looking like wine. Looking like blood. In my feelings.