Some people say that I am beautiful. I do not see it. More than not, I see myself as the epitome of darkness. Not the kind that scares you, more so the kind that hurts. The kind of darkness that my image mirrors is what you would experience in a dark room where you can sense a figure and the outline of where solid meets air. I am this moment of consciousness where you decide it is not worth straining your eyes to see the details of this anonymous figure.

No, I do not see myself as beautiful. When I picture myself I am thrown to the worst images I hold of myself, tattooed on the inside of my eyes where they have erased any beauty an onlooker might notice. I see myself in tones of blended red and black, just enough diversity to satisfy a person.

Black is for my mind. Black can presume confidence but still be breaking under its harsh monotony. Black is sexy and glamorous while at the same time shy in its efforts to blend. It serves as the licorice that nobody wants, the eye of an abused woman. The cat who brings evil and the grim reaper of death don this unfortunate appearance. Black proclaims itself to be frightening as it renders us helpless at night; however it is just as scared. Too sheepish to stand out, Black melts into the backdrop of our lives.

Red is the true menace. Red is Black’s opposite while at the same time its partner in crime. Red and Black together signify evil, but on its own Red terrifies me in ways that Black never will. It is ferocious, the color of beauty which will turn on its admirers in a seconds time. The content feel of a warm fire can instantaneously be the pits of Hell. A crimson valentine inevitably becomes a broken heart. The Devil wears this color freely, as he knows of its triumphs over Black.

I am Black and Red. I am Black, for the past stains of beauty that fall from my face in the waves of unwanted tsunamis. I am Red, in its most explicit of meanings which consumes me.