You painted me purple. Your favorite color.

When I wasn't a good enough shade of purple, you left.

You left and I turned yellow. Yellow like the lemonade that I don't drink anymore because it gave you acid reflex, like my hands sheilding my face when you hit me. 

You left, and I'm plain. Plain like the path waitng before me that might hold the steps to my future. The future that I fear because when you left, you left with the words: I'll deal with you later.

So I locked the doors to our apartment but not my heart because I don't think my body can take anymore knocking. 

You left, and now I am scared. Not for your return, but for my unending potential. I could be a rainbow.

You left, and I painted the living room green. Green like the grass outside my parents house when I would visit wearing long sleeves. The only color you never painted me. The color of life.

You're gone, and I stopped buying fancy shoes because I stopped looking at my feet when I walk.