SEE THE RED
A poem of crimson shame.
SEE THE RED
by Steve Veasey
See the red.
It’s running all over my hands.
Pooling. Glistening.
Staining the carpet in front of me.
And oh my God, the smell–
years later, it lingers, lining my nose.
Is it obvious? Are my hands still red?
It was only a oui bit of red.
I didn't know any better.
I was innocent. Just a boy.
Just a little boy.
”Be a good boy,” they'd say.
”Don't be like the others. Play it safe.”
I still don’t know any better.
I didn't know how red that red could be.
Especially as it dripped down my fingers.
What if they find out? What will they think?
I clenched my hands tight.
I hid the red. The terrible thing that I’ve done.
The sin against God. Against nature.
I've been clenching my hands ever since.
As they lower my body into the ground,
still my hands will remain clenched.
I’ll never let them see:
how red that my hands could be.
BEHIND THE SCENES:
I recently unlocked a core memory- one long repressed. Likely from trauma and rooted in survival. The event happened at a tumultuous time of life, I must have been 6 years old at most. I coveted a bottle of deep scarlet nail polish that my younger sister owned. I couldn’t understand why it was solely in her possession and I was restricted to use it. I needed to use it. To feel the glory of the paint on my body in a sublime expression. And perhaps understand an identity that was bigger than a 6 year old had the vocabulary for.
The glass vial whispered my name and offered the treasure that awaited. I stealthily nabbed it and hid under the dining table to indulge my desire. The coast was clear. Opening the bottle released a sweet chemical fragrance: the scent of liberation. Hands trembling, I delicately applied each stroke of lacquer onto the surface of my nails– skillfully getting very little on the surrounding beds. Colouring within the lines with mastery.
Twisting the lid back onto the bottle and extending my arm to view my craftsmanship. The gloss reflected all things glamorous and magical. So exquisite and free.
And then came the taste of regret. My body retching, writing– the urge to vomit, with awareness that a purge wouldn’t fix anything. I had done a very bad thing and couldn’t undo it. I cleverly kept my hands hidden, buried fists deep into my pockets for the following week. I stole a pair of sewing scissors, angled them in an attempt to scratch the nail polish off– to no avail. I was doomed. I still cringe at the sound of the blades scraping against my nails.
While driving to church on Sunday, the heavy shame was suffocating as the car went to park. God would see. He always sees. I buried myself into a pew, only lifting my head to look at the wooden clock hung precariously on the back wall, counting down the minutes to go home. I loitered in the corner of the lobby after the service. My hands aching from grasping the lining of my pockets. In a heedless moment, I looked up to see the eyes of the pastor’s daughter staring me down. She had children slightly older than me, but her and I had never had much of an exchange. She advanced. With each step, the fear crippled my small body more and more.
“Stephen, are you hiding something in your pockets? You can show me.” My eyes welling up with tears, I slowly withdrew them from my grey sweatpants to reveal my crimson hands: skin bruised as red as the nails from a week of clenching them tight. She could see the scratches of the polish with my virgin nails peeking underneath. I closed my eyes, waiting for the lashing.
“Come with me.” Reaching down to take my hand, leading to a nearby washroom. She helped lift me onto the counter, rummaged in her purse, and revealed a cotton pad and a small bottle of nail polish remover. My eyes glued shut, entertaining hypotheticals: She’ll tell me I’m a sinner. She’ll report me to my parents. She’ll announce to the congregation and fingers will point in ridicule.
But…
There were no questions. No judgement. Her gentle, soft hands held mine as she stroked the acetone drenched cotton across to remove the polish. Her hands spoke compassion and kindness while the silence echoed in the bathroom.
We never spoke of it again. She safeguarded my secret and shame.
This is love. The kind of love that sets us free.