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I never looked good in red, it's not my color.
Everything except the wings around my face is red: the color of blood, which defines us.
The tulips are red, a darker crimson towards the stem, as if they have been cut and are beginning to heal there.
We turn the corner onto a main street, where there's more traffic. Cars go by, black most of them, some gray and brown. There are other women with baskets, some in red,
The Red Center, we called it, because there was so much red
Was taken, by a Guardian... We rode in a red car, him in the front, me in the back. I'm solitaire.
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