I don't pick my favorite colors.

They pick me.

They cling to my skin, they go under my scalp,

they find those little spots under my fingernails that become tender and raw when I bite them

and that's where they burrow. They know their way around.

They root themselves on the inside of my identity, of my body,

then blossom in my eyes, tinting everything

because they've tainted me. They take their territory.

They take my personality. Each new shade rocks

and rolls my world on it's back and side and stomach.

It's personal.

You think I was born like this?

Everything they tell you about colors is wrong.

Innocence, more often than not,

is bleach to the soul.