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.