perhaps it’s not the way she craves love or affliction—or any affectivity for that matter. maybe it’s the thought—the appetite of her colorless imagination being filled with saturated color in which excites her.
the way she can almost taste the colors on the tip of her wet tongue, almost as if she’s been tasting such firmament her whole life: like cinnamon being stuck to your throat or strong whiskey in the morning.
life always throwing punches, the pain becoming habitual and anything different fills her lungs with roses; bittersweet suffocation.
each color has their own analogue, making their way to her mind and she yearns for it. for she has been painting with the same shades for too long.
the blandness and distastefulness makes her almost angry, as her heart colors with red.
however, she knows even if her tongue is dry and her throat becomes closed—those colors shall not come close. those colors—forbidden in her life.
too used to being fed white and black, actual color becomes a stranger who she could only lust over in the twilights nice.
