Red Plastic Dust

My childhood began
with a metal spring
curled on the carpet.
I opened it.
A hand closed my mouth.
The light went out.

I stood
on a narrow shelf,
facing the wall,
learning fear
as a location—
in muscle,
in breath.

Even now, decades later,
when I wake in the dark,
my body still asks:
Is there ground beneath me?

My uncle brought me a gift.
1976.
I was five.
She was beautiful—
the doll with painted eyes,
dark braids,
and nails—
bright red,
glossy, perfect.
I held her like treasure.

“Bad girls wear nail polish.
Take it off.”

Water. Soap.
My small fingernails
scratching at the color.

“Use the scissors.”

Clip. Clip. Clip.
Ten tiny nails
falling to the floor—
red plastic dust.

They raised us
to fear soft things.
Color.
Touch.
Wanting.

I learned early:
desire is something
you bury.

But the body keeps records.

Even now,
when something good arrives—
a hand extended,
a voice that says stay—
something in me
still reaches
for the scissors.

On the floor,
a red dust
only I can see.