Red looks like rage.

Red is the color of my father's face when he's angry at me for not doing some unspoken chore. Red is the color of the whites of my mother's eyes when she's raging at my father and I about how we're worthless because there's no money left for her weed after buying Father's alcohol, paying the bills, and buying food.

Red is the color of the blood spilling from my body after my mother and father are through with me.

Red is my blood on the knife that slit my throat.

Red is the color of the blanket they use to cover my broken, lifeless body.

But in death, I see white. White is peace.