He died my hair red and fed me marinara sauce.

Out of the ash I rise with my red hair
and I eat men like air -Silvia Plath

He told me I was a RED girl. 
red tongue--
red running face-- red raspberry rose rings
around my eyes that were supposed to be sleeping--
He took me by the shoulders-- by the clavicle--
all the places where boys find handles
on a girl-body-- crumpled me quick--
Tossed me as tissues-- stuffed me hastily back
into the box to be re-contorted again and again--
wipe blood from boy noses and knees.
He laid my body limp inside a brown-skin suitcase--
filled in the empty spaces with 
all my favorite pairs of old underwear--
threadbare with frogs and daisies and
soft-serve ice cream stains--
with the rainbow stripes-- 
with a white-laced waistband not yet afraid 
of how much blood we have waiting
inside our throats-- behind our finger nails--
coiled still blue and reptilian in our veins.
He told me I wasn't supposed to be a BLUE girl--
told me to stop falling into suitcases and start
wearing RED underwear like he wanted-- 
like Christmas girls-- wrapped present girls
RED bow girls in rows--
He didn't care if it was RED-blood or raspberries 
so I soaked my panties in my own sugar and
called myself a honey comb where all the bees
waited patiently for him to eat his fill--
fill his coffee mugs until he drank me
as bloody as a pomegranate-- called me 
temptress-- called his little eve with
the long sweater sleeves-- picked me backup by the
handles and told me it was time I eat something
besides berries-- told me to cup my
hands to hold marinara sauce-- wipe the leftovers
on my jeans-- break my bones into bread sticks 
and take garlic into my seams. 
He thrust my head over a sink and told me
no one wants a BLUE girl-- dyed my hair 
red and I saw BLUE go down the drain--
told me to remember each time I look
in a mirror the color in my hair is the
color he could make all my skin
if he wanted to-- told me that girls can't
hide themselves in blue long enough to 
become a boy-- fed me my own bread stick bones
and mused at the stains on my jeans.
But he didn't know how RED we all are--
that no hair color could make me forget 
my blood-- my blood remembers me each month--
my blood is in my fingernails-- my tongue--
my blue veins. 
So I let you dye my hair RED.
And you thought you took me in a suitcase.
But out of the ash I bake new bread stick
bones-- my hair was RED before you
and it will be RED after you and it will
be ash dusted and blue-veined
to eat you like 
marinara sauce, air, and 
raspberries stain.