They say, it’s black or white,

it’s good or bad,

it’s there or not there,

it’s right or wrong.

But really, all they see is red,

trickling down my neck,

boiling beneath the bottoms of my chest,

lava erupting from collisions of misunderstanding -

I say, that there is nothing black or white,

perspective is the colour we see,

beyond the horizon and back a million times,

do not trust your own eyes.

But still, all I see is red,

trickling down his neck,

boiling beneath the bottoms of his chest,

lava erupting from collisions of misunderstanding -

He says, that there is nothing,

embraced by the radio that shouts,

the microwave that explodes, the ultraviolet that penetrates his skin,

all dying to be seen.