I died my hair bright red the other day;

now my curls are poisonous snakes.

Twisting, turning, tangling.


We know that in nature, bright colors mean posionous.

They scream, "Danger! Danger! Don't mess with me!"

So stay away. Leave me alone.

Don't touch me.

Now you can go ahead and call me a snake, 

but I'm not the one who hurt you.


Who's the snake?

Not me.

I'm not the one who turned your heart to stone.

I am your victim.


This poem is about: 
My country
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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