Papaver (Rhoaes, Californicum)
I. Did you know that I love you?
II. (Not like that.)
III. At age eight, I wanted to repaint my bedroom. I begged my mom for months. She said yes, on one condition. I couldn’t paint it red, because red bedroom walls make people angry and we both knew I didn’t need any more of that.
IV. He knew that I did not love him—at least, not like that. I, too, knew that I did not love him—but maybe I could learn to love like that. It is surprisingly hard to make red out of red.
V. I did not paint my bedroom red.
VI. There is a wildfire wrapped up inside of my chest, burning forever and never going out. Fire takes and takes and burns and burns but maybe it is always worth it to stay warm. It is a strange thing, to be full of fire and still feel cold.
VII. Siken wrote about it in his poem Wishbone: “If you love me, you don’t love me in a way I understand.“ I don’t think I mean it the same way he meant it, though.
VIII. It wasn’t until eleventh grade that I knew what I’ve always known. There is, on occasion, a distinct and important difference between danger (a possibility) and love (an acceptance).
IX. I find it funny that red is the color of love and the color of (d)anger. It makes sense, though. Love and (d)anger are red because they are both the color of wanting. On occasion they are different, but in this they are the same.
X. When he asked me out in ninth grade over a phone call I wasn’t expecting, I accidentally said yes.
XI. My life is an assortment of wantings laid bare, intense and bright burning red. In the first grade, I made a list of careers I wanted to have and picked a different one for each month. In second, I drew out blueprints—pages and pages of them—for the farm I would own one day called “Blue Moon Ranch“ with a bunch of horses and fences among misty mountains and stunningly warm sunsets. By third, I made new friends that asked me new questions. One day they asked which boy I would date if I could. I did not tell them there was not room for a boy in my blueprints. I wondered if maybe I ought to make some.
XII. I still find it funny that red is the color of love and the color of (d)anger.
XIII. I never made room for a boy in my blueprints. That felt red. I don’t know what kind of wanting it was.
XIV. So many times, I wished that I loved him. I think things would’ve been easier that way. There is red inside of me—bursting out of my chest, spilling like rain from the edges of my eyes, burning at my fingertips. It is love and it is (d)anger, but it is not like that.
XV. “Asexual,“ “aromantic,“ derived from the Latin prefix “a-“ as in “not“ and as in “without.“ “Asexual,“ “aromantic“ as in “without sex“ and “without romance“ and “Asexual“ and “Aromantic,“ as in, see also: “a shocking lack of the color red for someone woven together with it.“
XVI. I told him first. I didn’t know I was telling him then, but I told him first. I apologized.
XVII. It is surprisingly hard to make red out of red.
XVIII. More specifically, he said I hurt him and I let him down and I said I’m sorry and I’m figuring it out and “the idea of dating and dates still intimidate[s] me, but I really didn’t want to let you down and I wanted to try“ and maybe things would’ve been better if I learned the Latin prefix “a“ and some of its root words a little sooner but I didn’t and I hadn’t and I was still waiting for the fire to burn in the one shade that it never touched. Because no matter how I begged it or how I wished please, just let me be like everyone else and I want to know that I can love like that and wildfires should not burn without air to breathe I have never been like that.
XIX. I am still full of wanting. I am still love and (d)anger and little bright alerts redirecting attention and carnelian stone on a string and yew berries and wild cherries and the sun turned crimson beneath scattered smoke and ash. I am drunk on red and in love with ambition.
XX. Is a wildfire doomed to burn everything it touches?
XXI. She knew that I could not love her—at least, not like that.
XXII. (D)anger (red): intense wanting of a change in reality
Love (red): Intense wanting of a reality just as it is
XXIII. And she knows that I love her (not quite like that). She knows because I told her on the edge of a dock at the end of summer and because there is room for someone like her in the blueprints. She knows because she’s heard of Latin words and their derivatives and smiles warm in the firelight. Once, she drew us in a changed reality just as we are. She was blue, born of the sea and ocean mist. And I was red, phoenix-like and burning.
XXIV. The wildfire inside of my chest burns and despite everything, I have never feared it.
XXV. I will never burn in every shade of red.
XXVI. Perhaps a wildfire is doomed to burn everything it touches. But perhaps love (an acceptance) necessitates danger (a possibility), just a little bit.
XXVII. I will never burn in every shade of red and that does not mean and has never meant that I am not red.
XXVIII. And at age nineteen (just barely), I looked at her on the dock and said that I did not know if I would ever be able to love her like that. And she said to me, “I like the way you love me.“
XXIX. A wildfire is wrapped up inside of my chest, forever burning and warm and it might always be afraid of the cold, but
XXX. I think it’s okay that I love you (like this).
Casey Fleming (they/she) is a sophomore pursuing a dual degree in Narrative Studies (BA, Dornsife School of Letters, Arts and Science) and Themed Entertainment (BFA, School of Cinematic Arts). They are passionate about writing, production, and sound, and often try to combine these interests in a myriad of ways—presently, Casey is the president of the video game making club Open Alpha, Head of Production for the Trojan Stunt Team, and part of an independent actual-play podcast called The Valkyrie Cycle. Oftentimes, they can be found scurrying around campus with half-finished scripts and a startling amount of audio equipment in their backpack.