the girl was beautiful even then a blur of charcoal and sea foam subtle curves with soft, yearning eyes her adoration was reflected in the hooded eyes of the painter who laid her skeleton out to dry.
he spoke to her often, his only friend, filling her with ideas of sea shell pink lips, and a rose red heart to match his own his idle fingers held the brush, dipped in rose and sea shell dust, but he did not fill in the cream canvas skeleton.
the artist was a gargoyle in stretched flesh, garishly painted in obscene brights lime green, neon orange, fire engine red but with the wipe of the artist cloth the colors fell away and she would see the monotone palette that the paint kept hidden away.
with trembling hands, she took the oil pastel from the gargoyle's hands, and slowly, timidly, colored in her own heart, filled in her own eyes, and colored in her void until she became a tiger blossom lily of her own accord.
Don't let someone dictate how colorful or not you are in your own life.