Bleeding Pink was one of the first pieces I wrote after finally coming to terms with the end of a seven-year whirlwind relationship.
That relationship felt a lot like the teacup ride at a carnival.
It started off slow and sweet. With gentle smiles, steady spins, just enough motion to feel safe. You think, “This is nice. This is safe.”
And then the spinning picks up.
Faster. Harder. Dizzying.
It makes you sick. It makes the people around you sick, but just when you’re ready to get off, it slows back down.
Back to the same soft pace that made you stay.
It wasn’t the chaos that trapped me. It was the calm that followed. The “love” that felt like a reward for sticking by his side during the turbulence.
That’s what made it dangerous.
And I became an addict. Clinging to his pretty words.
You know the ones—“I love you,” “I’d never hurt you,” “It’s only me and you.”
I wanted those words to be true so badly that I ignored what his actions were actually telling me.
Bleeding Pink became a turning point—a final goodbye.
It marked the moment I stopped rewriting his lies into poetry and started reclaiming truth.
Yes, it took more than one heartbreak to leave. But I’m free now. And this poem is a promise to myself:
I will never again silence my voice so someone else can control the story.
I will never again be hypnotized by words that don’t align with actions.
This poem will be part of my upcoming poetry collection, but I wanted to share it now because this one helped me bloom.
🎧 You can listen to the poem or read along below.
Bleeding Pink
I love pretty words,
They create a universe I can roam in.
I frolic through the garden of similes,
And smell the sweet aroma of your metaphors.
The colors of your sentences blowing through your breath.
An exhale of beauty.
Draped in red jealousy love.
Greenly envious of us.
I love pretty words,
But then your weather changed.
Your cold wind in my hair.
The hallow stump behind your stare.
You’re Stunted,
And I’ve been indoctrinated into the belief that if I just keep pouring my water you would one day grow again.
You never did,
You never grew back into the tree that you claimed once stood there.
My love kept seeping back into the ground in hopes to touch your roots.
The shallowness of your core made me realized your love wasn’t as deep as I thought it was.
I finally stand up.
Stepping out,
I was pricked by the thorns of your intentions.
Disgusted on how I compared my honey to every flower I saw you stopped at.
Now I just have one question…
When you were picking the last of my pedals, did you stop at I love you?
Or will you admit you love me not.
Pretty words,
Camouflaged serpents.
I finally see your fangs.
Pretty words,
I won’t let you hypnotize me again.
-Written by Cheyenne Ariel Paez
Reflection
I used to romanticize pain as long as it came wrapped in promises.
Now, I write to remember that love is not just about words. It's about how those words live. How they show up when it matters. How they match the truth.
Bleeding Pink was my moment of truth.
I sat in that for a looooong time. Getting back in the teacup knowing it was making me sick.
Writing this poem reminded me that my voice, love and time isn’t something to be handed over frivolously. It’s something I’m learning to guard, to honor, and to share on my terms.
If you’ve ever stayed too long for the sake of “what could be…” or “what if it’s about to get better…”
If you’ve ever mistaken pretty language for real love…
If you’re finding your way back to your voice after betrayal…
I see you.
And I hope this poem gives you language for your own rising.
Tell me—what are you reclaiming?
Drop a word, a line, or a whisper of truth in the comments below.
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