She always wore black - the kind that swallows light.

Spoke like smoke, left rooms in quiet flight.

Never a ripple, never a scene,

The type you remember though you’ve never been seen.

At shows, her voice was mercury glass

Smooth, reflective, cold, and fast.

People said she’s untouchable, they said she’s art.

No one noticed the tremor beneath her heart.

In every photograph she blurred a little more,

Till all that remained was the shape she wore.

Then one night, she came dressed in red

Like a flare through the dark, like something unsaid.

Every head turned, and silence spread.

No one breathed. No one fled.

Just red.

She sang the same song but it sounded new,

A crack in the glass, a truth that grew.

Her hands shook - not fear, but release.

Like colour had finally made her complete.

Every note bled through the seams,

Lighting the crowd like broken dreams.

That one night, she came dressed in red

The mask was gone, the ghost was dead.

No apology, no regret.

No black, no veil - just red.

People said it was style. They missed the point.

It was confession. It was joint

and marrow, soul laid bare.

She wore what she was. And we all stared.

She came dressed in red

And I saw the world she’d kept in her head.

No colour left to shed.

She was alive. She was red.

(Red…)

(Just red…)