.authored by Something.of.Substance.
I forget fuchsia. Something that screams “I’m trying too hard!” Tacky plastic heel pink. Barbie’s dream house condensed into one gendered message and reguritated over my fingernails.
A generic Friday night. This color.
It’s a step above an impulse purchase like gum; seediness slightly better than truck-stop restroom condoms. A clear indication of intention. The discarded matchstick on the sidewalk seconds after it’s served its purpose. Spent.
Lit. This color.
So like red, yet lacking in boldness. A subversive statement. An advertisement of itself: $10 per ride as long as you bounce it on your knee and let it call you “daddy”! Right next to righteous indignation, lust or the day before regret.
A siren song. This color.
The shadow of the sidekick. The call to an island you no longer inhabit. A vacationing mortal ascended upon Mount Olympus. Munchausen’s for dummies. A transcript of a spectacle, allowing you to experience feeling by proxy.
Camouflaged. This color.
An attempt to be noticed so pathetic it’s universally ignored.
Desperate. This color.
