crimson.
she was bright carmine,
burning scarlet,
the kind that makes
you stop and look and
turn and think-
this is pure,
this is vibrant,
this is emotion;
the color of
her heart, all
the rich
passion bleeding through.
crimson.

red.
maybe it wasn’t
crimson, but it
was red,
deep and true and
real and right.
the color of
her heart- not
the crimson inside but
just the outside,
the shell of
who she was.
red.

magenta.
she was slowly
fading into labels of
pink and flowery and
fragile and girl;
she took her crimson and
her carmine and
her red and
made it what
they wanted to see,
sliding into the
niche they had
set for her.
magenta.

carnation.
she changed not
only her color but
her title too; sacrificed
her identity for
a crayon color,
the kind that comes
in every Crayola
twelve-box.
carnation.

rose.
she couldn’t be
exquisite carnation, so
she chose the commoners’
bouquet, beautiful
but pale and limp and
wilted at the edges;
let her petals
peel away-
he loves me, he
loves me not.
rose.

grey.
she was eroding away
at what little
was left of
her color, as if
pale rose
just wasn’t
blanched enough.
she was cool
grey now, wispy
ghost-like wraiths of
feeble life.
grey.

white.
bleached like a
wedding dress,
with a kind of
faded, dusty elegance,
like a jewel, tarnished
with time, a
girl who had
lost her luster
long ago,
vacant,
barren,
empty,
colorless,
white.

nothing.

nothing.