Another
color or colour,
the alphabet itself stutters when it reaches her,
c caught in the throat of u,
u choking on the memory of o,
until the whole word collapses
into the single sound
she was never asked to make.
She steps from that wreckage
barefoot
on the shards
of every spelling bee
that tried to correct her
into disappearing.
Her head is the color of a verdict
delivered in a courtroom
where the lights went out
before the sentence
could finish
being ashamed of itself.
Shaved by a blade
that apologised
in seventeen dialects of silence
and still
cut clean
to the truth.
The scalp gleams
like a courtroom gavel
polished with the sweat
of every lie
ever sworn
on a book
that never mentioned
her name.
Skin the color of a blackout
at the exact second
the city realises
it never paid
the bill
for existing.
Not white like surrender,
not white like innocence;
this is the white
of a hospital receipt
folded so many times
it became
a weapon.
Touch it
and your fingerprints
will file for asylum
in another lifetime.
Eyes the color of fuel
spilled on sacred ground
and left to burn
until even the smoke
prayed
for forgiveness.
Two small infernos
where mercy
went to die
and came back
wearing armour
made of no.
They do not look at you.
They audit you.
The mouth
is the color of a revolution
that started
with a single syllable
nobody taught her
how to pronounce
so she invented
a new language
where every word
means
stay alive.
Red so fierce
it has its own heartbeat,
red that remembers
being a scream
before it was told
to smile
and say thank you.
It opens
just enough
to let the future
crawl out
covered in blood
and already
walking.
Her shirt is the color of bail forms
never granted,
white lattice
like the bars
of a cage
built from the bones
of every promise
that arrived
stillborn.
Each diamond
a cell
where hope
was told
to sit quietly
until further notice
and the notice
never came
so hope
learned
to pick locks
with its teeth.
Neck the color of a rope
that refused
to hang
and became
a horizon
instead.
A single vein
pulses there
slow
relentless
like the drum
of a people
told
their rhythm
was illegal
but their blood
kept time
anyway.
Behind her
the wall
is peeling
like old propaganda
revealing
older propaganda
underneath.
Cracks spell
her name
in a language
the colonisers
tried to outlaw
and failed.
A cockroach
the color of survival
crosses the plaster
carrying tomorrow
on its back
like it weighs
nothing.
The bulb
has no color left
to sell
to the dark.
It hangs
like a witness
who finally
remembered
the truth
and decided
to keep it.
She stands
at the dead centre
of this unlit
confessional.
Her shadow
does not bow.
It grows
until it fills
the entire room
black
unapologetic
the only color
still willing
to pay rent
in a building
scheduled
for demolition.
When she inhales
the air
forgets
it was ever
free.
When she exhales
the dust
rises
in the shape
of every child
they tried to bury
alive
and the children
stand up
still breathing.
She is the girl
color was invented
to erase
and failed.
She is the reason
rainbows
go grayscale
when she walks
through them.
She is the reason
mirrors
learn
to look away
before they
shatter.
She is the moment
after the last pigment
is scrubbed off
and the skin
refuses
to forget
it was ever
anything
but royal.
And the red
on her lips
is not
lipstick.
It is the remainder
of every empire
they tried to paint
over her
still dripping
in the exact shade
of
I am still here.
She has worn
every color
they used
to try to cancel her
and risen
wearing
the one
they were
too afraid
to name
aloud.
This is not
a photograph.
This is the second
before the lights
come back on
and the dark
realises
it was never
in charge.
Still
here.
Still
color or colour
the choice
was never
theirs.
Never
was.
Never
will be.
color or colour,
the alphabet itself stutters when it reaches her,
c caught in the throat of u,
u choking on the memory of o,
until the whole word collapses
into the single sound
she was never asked to make.
She steps from that wreckage
barefoot
on the shards
of every spelling bee
that tried to correct her
into disappearing.
Her head is the color of a verdict
delivered in a courtroom
where the lights went out
before the sentence
could finish
being ashamed of itself.
Shaved by a blade
that apologised
in seventeen dialects of silence
and still
cut clean
to the truth.
The scalp gleams
like a courtroom gavel
polished with the sweat
of every lie
ever sworn
on a book
that never mentioned
her name.
Skin the color of a blackout
at the exact second
the city realises
it never paid
the bill
for existing.
Not white like surrender,
not white like innocence;
this is the white
of a hospital receipt
folded so many times
it became
a weapon.
Touch it
and your fingerprints
will file for asylum
in another lifetime.
Eyes the color of fuel
spilled on sacred ground
and left to burn
until even the smoke
prayed
for forgiveness.
Two small infernos
where mercy
went to die
and came back
wearing armour
made of no.
They do not look at you.
They audit you.
The mouth
is the color of a revolution
that started
with a single syllable
nobody taught her
how to pronounce
so she invented
a new language
where every word
means
stay alive.
Red so fierce
it has its own heartbeat,
red that remembers
being a scream
before it was told
to smile
and say thank you.
It opens
just enough
to let the future
crawl out
covered in blood
and already
walking.
Her shirt is the color of bail forms
never granted,
white lattice
like the bars
of a cage
built from the bones
of every promise
that arrived
stillborn.
Each diamond
a cell
where hope
was told
to sit quietly
until further notice
and the notice
never came
so hope
learned
to pick locks
with its teeth.
Neck the color of a rope
that refused
to hang
and became
a horizon
instead.
A single vein
pulses there
slow
relentless
like the drum
of a people
told
their rhythm
was illegal
but their blood
kept time
anyway.
Behind her
the wall
is peeling
like old propaganda
revealing
older propaganda
underneath.
Cracks spell
her name
in a language
the colonisers
tried to outlaw
and failed.
A cockroach
the color of survival
crosses the plaster
carrying tomorrow
on its back
like it weighs
nothing.
The bulb
has no color left
to sell
to the dark.
It hangs
like a witness
who finally
remembered
the truth
and decided
to keep it.
She stands
at the dead centre
of this unlit
confessional.
Her shadow
does not bow.
It grows
until it fills
the entire room
black
unapologetic
the only color
still willing
to pay rent
in a building
scheduled
for demolition.
When she inhales
the air
forgets
it was ever
free.
When she exhales
the dust
rises
in the shape
of every child
they tried to bury
alive
and the children
stand up
still breathing.
She is the girl
color was invented
to erase
and failed.
She is the reason
rainbows
go grayscale
when she walks
through them.
She is the reason
mirrors
learn
to look away
before they
shatter.
She is the moment
after the last pigment
is scrubbed off
and the skin
refuses
to forget
it was ever
anything
but royal.
And the red
on her lips
is not
lipstick.
It is the remainder
of every empire
they tried to paint
over her
still dripping
in the exact shade
of
I am still here.
She has worn
every color
they used
to try to cancel her
and risen
wearing
the one
they were
too afraid
to name
aloud.
This is not
a photograph.
This is the second
before the lights
come back on
and the dark
realises
it was never
in charge.
Still
here.
Still
color or colour
the choice
was never
theirs.
Never
was.
Never
will be.
The Sunday Circle