The Color White

She wore the color white, like clouds unbruised, like first snow on grass. A child of purity, of laughter too gentle to last. White were the bows in her hair, the bedsheets where she dreamed of skies, of angels who never touched her wrong, of stars that never told lies. She moved like innocence, each step a prayer, each breath a song. She thought the world was gentle. She thought her home was strong. But one night, white turned red. Her father's hands, familiar and foul, ripped through the sky she dreamed beneath and raped her in the quiet of the house. The snow melted into blood, clouds choking in her chest. No angels came. No gods replied. Only the weight of his unrest. Now white is no longer pure. It is the scream behind the door, the stain on skin she cannot scrub, the innocence that is no more. Still, she stands. Not whole, but unbowed. A girl who once wore white now wrapped in flame, unashamed, and loud.