Red.

It was her bridal wear. Red.
Her forehead filled with vermillion-red.
He deflowered her-red.
The bruises on her body,

her torn wear,

her wiped out vermillion- red.


He called it his right. To paint her RED.
Right guaranteed to him by her wear, the vermillion, and the fire. All in shades of RED.
The red sign she held, was just a hue out of place. A green for him, to paint her red.


She laid out there immersed in redness. 

Redness:

    of her bruises;

    her torn out clothes

    her wiped out vermillion; and,

    the broken red signal.

For him?

 He was licensed; 

 To do as he pleased. With her body, her soul. 

And her opposition? 

    Didn't matter;

    would never matter!

He had painted her red against her will. 

The will that had been burnt, from the very moment she wore that red bridal wear; and,

that red vermillion;

sitting beside him in front of that red fire setup.