Red, like a fire engine, like a brick wall, like a top I dare not wear, like the pillowcases bought to make up for a deficit.
The colour of passion, the colour of pain.
The colour that greets me every month, mocking as my fertile years pass by.
Red, like my lips after he melted me.
Blue, like the sky on an imagined morning, like the nail polish I only wear occasionally, like the bag I bought to replace the same old same old and lasted all of four months.
The colour of the text bubbles I type and send relentlessly, hoping, in vain, for the response that it’s not falling on death ears, that my daydreams echo and resonate in another.
Green, like Nessie, the proof of an unfortunate hope executed real messed up style, just as I was sure it would be.
The colour of grass that grows with new gusto after each time it gets mowed down, like a never tiring Jack-in-a-box, springing back to life no matter how many feet trample on it, no matter how many ball kicks tore into the tired ground, no matter how much dog piss soaks through the leaves.
The colour of the cacti I keep watering every time I remember not to forget, the cacti that are slowly dying in their nourishment barren little pots in the humid window sill, dreaming of Mexico.
Yellow, the colour of jealousy that creeps upon me a thousand times a day, and eats me bit by bit as I plaster a smile on. My ‘it’s been a long day at work’ sighs cover up the ache that overcomes me as the crumpled pieces of my hopes and wishes replace my once so eager and naive daydreams that I painted so vividly as I lay in bed at night a decade ago.
The colour of sunshine that to me signifies the time to hide, while others drop their clothes and inhibitions.
Purple, like the eye-liner I wore, thinking I was all grown up and sexy, like the nail polish I bought to show I am not bound by conventions and expectations. Like the top I wore for years until it faded to lavender and then grey. Like the cloud that surrounds me when I hear his voice.
Pink, the colour I hate as it’s everything that supposed to be girly, and whenever my sister and I got the same toys, hers were pink or red, while mine were always blue.
The colour I hate for other girls wear it, not afraid to be girly, to showcase their liking of an insanely unnatural colour, admitting that being a little crazy, a little uncaring, a little daring, a little over the top, a little ‘why the hell not’, is their way to go – but it has never been mine.
Black, like most of my thoughts every time she comes to mind, like the unfairness I feel over the injustice in the world, for always having been too young and too old at the same time, for never being just enough, for never being the best thing that ever happened to someone.
The colour of defeat and regret, the colour of comfort and reassurance – I’ve been here before, and survived, so I will this time as well.
White, like the snow that fell on my childhood and covered up those faded sleighing memories in a thick layer of never to be found.
The colour of my furniture, in search of purity, playing grown up in the shadows of IKEA.
The colour of a ‘maybe one day’ hope that I refuse to give up on.