my red shirt
When I was fourteen, my father committed suicide and it ripped my world apart. The day my childhood was taken from me, my future, my home, everything I've believed - dissolved into ashes and blew into the wind before I could catch it. My grief became more complicated as the years went by; A wine stain on my favourite white cotton shirt I’d scrub and scrub until my fingers were raw bleeding into another thread. At 23 my shirt was crimson red, you could never imagine what it was before it all - just like me. I hate the colour red. With each glance into the mirror, the ghost of my white shirt haunted me. My fingertips traced the outline I’m trying to grab it to take a piece of myself back - I had lost everything else, why did I have to lose me too? Eyes linger too long, skin peering through the torn holes I can’t keep pretending this is my favourite white shirt anymore.

I felt every word. Great poem!
Such a touching piece Mia! Beautiful 🤍