He was a multitude of colors.

An array of blues, reds, oranges, and blacks.

He was the smoking grey in my lungs that fastened both hands around my throat and threatened to end my life right then and there if I didn't give up my air.

He was the black his eyes turned when he was mad and when he saw me. They hypnotized me into thinking day was night and made me tell my mom lies.

Nothing good ever happens in the dark.

He was the red I saw when his words hit me like a train meant to leave blue, purple bruises.

He was the blues I listened to just to forget him: Elvis, Frank, Dean. The galaxies behind my eyes.

He was my never ending white. The light would play on his glowing wings making his dark features sharp.

It made him hard to touch.

It made me forget that bad things are often dressed as things we crave, making me remember that the devil was once an angel.