color or colour,
the world tried both and still choked on the spelling of her name.
She rises from the fracture between the c and the u
where language cracked its own spine
trying to decide
if she was allowed
to exist
in either tongue.
Her head is the color of a scream
bleached by a thousand hospital lamps
until even the echo
forgot its own pitch.
Shaved so close
the blade left a scar
shaped like the word
“stay”
written backwards
so only mirrors
can read it
and they refuse.
Skin the color of a power outage
at the exact moment
the last candle
realises
it was never
meant to last.
Not pale,
not ghost,
but the color of a page
they tried to burn
and the fire
walked away
ashamed.
Touch it
and your warmth
will file a missing person report
before your hand
remembers
it belongs to you.
Eyes the color of coal
after the mine
collapsed
and no one
bothered
to dig.
Two small graves
where hope
was buried
alive
and learned
to breathe
through the dirt.
They do not plead.
They invoice.
The mouth
is the color of fresh crime-scene tape
stretched across a smile
they said
was not allowed
to be this wide.
Red so loud
it has its own pulse,
red that remembers
being a heartbeat
before it was told
to sit still
and look pretty.
It parts
just enough
to let one word
escape:
a word
carved from the sound
of every door
slammed
in her face
now opening
on its own.
Her shirt is the color of restraint
orders
never served
because the judge
was too busy
looking away.
White lattice
like bars
forged from the ribs
of every apology
that died
in someone’s throat.
Each diamond
a cell
where truth
was told
to wait
until further notice
and the notice
never came.
Neck the color of a rope
that learned
to untie itself
at the last second
and walk away
still breathing.
A single vein
throbs there
slow
defiant
like a drum
in a country
where rhythm
was outlawed
but the blood
kept dancing
anyway.
Behind her
the wall
has surrendered
every coat of paint
it ever wore
to Sunday service.
Layers flake
like old sins
revealing
more old sins
underneath.
A fly
the color of regret
circles the light
then thinks better
and leaves
without buzzing.
The bulb
has no color left
to bribe the dark with.
It dangles
like a tongue
still trying
to pronounce
the verdict
after the trial
ended
in fire.
She stands
at the dead center
of this monochrome
inquisition.
Her shadow
does not kneel.
It rises
three feet tall
black
unrepentant
the only color
still willing
to pay the price
of staying.
When she inhales
the room
forgets
it was ever
allowed
to have walls.
When she exhales
the dust
spells her name
in every language
they tried to erase
and the letters
refuse
to fade.
She is the girl
color was invented
to erase.
She is the reason
spectrums
go monochrome
when she enters
the room.
She is the reason
mirrors
commit suicide
by reflection
at dawn.
She is the moment
after the last pigment
bleeds out
and the canvas
refuses
to die
blank.
And the red
on her lips
is not
a stain.
It is the remainder
of every empire
they tried to paint
over her
still dripping
in the exact shade
of
remember me.
She has worn
every color
they used
to try to cancel her
and risen
wearing
the one
they forgot
was never
theirs
to give
or take.
This is not
a photograph.
This is the instant
before color
realises
it was always
a suggestion
and she
was always
the law.
Still
here.
Still
color or colour
the choice
was never
theirs.
the world tried both and still choked on the spelling of her name.
She rises from the fracture between the c and the u
where language cracked its own spine
trying to decide
if she was allowed
to exist
in either tongue.
Her head is the color of a scream
bleached by a thousand hospital lamps
until even the echo
forgot its own pitch.
Shaved so close
the blade left a scar
shaped like the word
“stay”
written backwards
so only mirrors
can read it
and they refuse.
Skin the color of a power outage
at the exact moment
the last candle
realises
it was never
meant to last.
Not pale,
not ghost,
but the color of a page
they tried to burn
and the fire
walked away
ashamed.
Touch it
and your warmth
will file a missing person report
before your hand
remembers
it belongs to you.
Eyes the color of coal
after the mine
collapsed
and no one
bothered
to dig.
Two small graves
where hope
was buried
alive
and learned
to breathe
through the dirt.
They do not plead.
They invoice.
The mouth
is the color of fresh crime-scene tape
stretched across a smile
they said
was not allowed
to be this wide.
Red so loud
it has its own pulse,
red that remembers
being a heartbeat
before it was told
to sit still
and look pretty.
It parts
just enough
to let one word
escape:
a word
carved from the sound
of every door
slammed
in her face
now opening
on its own.
Her shirt is the color of restraint
orders
never served
because the judge
was too busy
looking away.
White lattice
like bars
forged from the ribs
of every apology
that died
in someone’s throat.
Each diamond
a cell
where truth
was told
to wait
until further notice
and the notice
never came.
Neck the color of a rope
that learned
to untie itself
at the last second
and walk away
still breathing.
A single vein
throbs there
slow
defiant
like a drum
in a country
where rhythm
was outlawed
but the blood
kept dancing
anyway.
Behind her
the wall
has surrendered
every coat of paint
it ever wore
to Sunday service.
Layers flake
like old sins
revealing
more old sins
underneath.
A fly
the color of regret
circles the light
then thinks better
and leaves
without buzzing.
The bulb
has no color left
to bribe the dark with.
It dangles
like a tongue
still trying
to pronounce
the verdict
after the trial
ended
in fire.
She stands
at the dead center
of this monochrome
inquisition.
Her shadow
does not kneel.
It rises
three feet tall
black
unrepentant
the only color
still willing
to pay the price
of staying.
When she inhales
the room
forgets
it was ever
allowed
to have walls.
When she exhales
the dust
spells her name
in every language
they tried to erase
and the letters
refuse
to fade.
She is the girl
color was invented
to erase.
She is the reason
spectrums
go monochrome
when she enters
the room.
She is the reason
mirrors
commit suicide
by reflection
at dawn.
She is the moment
after the last pigment
bleeds out
and the canvas
refuses
to die
blank.
And the red
on her lips
is not
a stain.
It is the remainder
of every empire
they tried to paint
over her
still dripping
in the exact shade
of
remember me.
She has worn
every color
they used
to try to cancel her
and risen
wearing
the one
they forgot
was never
theirs
to give
or take.
This is not
a photograph.
This is the instant
before color
realises
it was always
a suggestion
and she
was always
the law.
Still
here.
Still
color or colour
the choice
was never
theirs.
The Sunday Circle