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.