I don't pick my favorite colors. They pick me, then leave me when they want, not when I ask. Until then, 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, partly because I have shown them my own explorations. They root themselves on the inside of my identity, of my body, then blossom in my blue-grey-blue eyes, tinting everything because they've tainted me. They take their territory. My head, not my mouth, and my right arm are always claimed together. My left hand is always lightly stained. Each new shade, however pure, rocks and rolls my world on its back and side and stomach, though my stomach is never painted quite right. It's personal. No one else has ever seen me this way, nor ever will, not even a mirror. You think I was born like this? Everything they tell you about colors is wrong. Fragile glass hearts are less fleshy pick than black. Innocence, more often than not, is bleach to the soul. 


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