I always wondered,
Why in my culture, we wore a red
And not a white
Then I remembered she is a woman
Her blood is rinsed with sacrifice
And on the day of matrimonial happiness
She shall bleed out
Maybe it’s a cry for change,
Or maybe it’s compromise in its most crimson reflection
But when her hands are stained with henna
And her arms laced in embroidered elegance
Does her blood begin to change?
And if it doesn’t, will she be thrown away
Like the burden on her fathers head?
That chokes him from the day she was born to the day she is wed
Is that why her mother once wore the colour red?
I think to myself,
a lamb bleeds too when it’s cut for it’s meat,
And then it’s coat is no longer light
Is that why she wears red and not white?