A girl, forged by her own power in the fires of Hephaestus

cries at the news of indigenous peoples being denied their rights to fresh water,

Cries,

because she saw an old man crossing the street with his pup,

and wondered how the dog would survive the loss of her master.

Red hair, artificially dyed to match the fires in her soul,

faded to pink,

with no care how her darkening roots are perceived by the world.

Crimson lips,

kiss-me red, punch-you-in-the-mouth red,

Red like the molten words leaving those lips,

Magma in their own right, singeing bigots’ eyebrows and searing their opinions.

Red ink on her fingertips, bleeding out on the page as she strikes through others’ expectations,

Red tongue, whip-quick and barbed.

Red like passion, red like anger, red like pain.

Red blood, flowing through her veins,

a testament to all these things and more, a representation of her humanity,

of her compassion, in spite of the divinity she embodies.

A red soul, from a blue state,

The perfect specimen to live up to her name.

Amber,

for the fires that burned her, that she used to forge herself a new destiny,

for the passion and compassion she exudes on a daily basis,

for the pain, and love, and rage that’s made her grow into herself.

All the warmth of a familiar rage, of a familiar ache, of a familiar love.