If I had nine cans of red paint hanging by the handles up and down my arms leaving red-lined marks in stripes from shoulder to elbow I would throw them far away from you, searching

for another connotation other than the one you gave the color to give to yourself,
“I am tough without feelings I am strong and I am fierce and fiery and I like red,” convincing who?

Because a uniform skirt is not uniformity if the legs underneath are laden with small red pen people you drew,
Red isn’t the color of rebellion if that was the goal,

you thought, you confessed,
reddening