Scarlet by Stevi Rollinson
My mama tells me only old houses need paint. I’ve never seen a new house left naked— bare wood exposed, not painted. The nuns at school said it was a sin. They insisted shaving their heads was holy, too. Jesus wasn’t bald. A shade of scarlet, paired with my plaid, pleated skirt. I wore it to school mass, face hidden behind a hymnal. To the ladies room I was escorted. “All day” lip wear is hard to wash off, but I was beautiful for thirty minutes. So glorious those thirty minutes. Red on Marilyn. Nude on Twiggy. Self-expression silenced in its absence— confidence crippled. I’ll wear red, thanks. Call it a tribute. Jesus, forgive me, for I have sinned.
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