You call us all red,

like you’ve never noticed

how we redefine the term,

like you can’t even see:

we’re ochre, brown, amber, sand –

flecked with filigree –

tiniest traces of yellows and greens –

a hundred million textures and shades of in-betweens.

 

I was fluid before

you made this mould,

not something to be bought or sold.

I could have been anything.

 

And, for what it’s worth, I choose not to support you.

 

I know the heat of your furnace;

at my core, I still dream of the sea.

If nothing else, know this:

a wall is never what I wanted to be.