crimson nothing.

crimson.

she was bright carmine,

burning scarlet,

the kind that makes

you stop and look and

turn and think-

this is pure,

this is vibrant,

this is emotion;

the color of

her heart, all

the rich

passion bleeding through.

crimson.

red.

maybe it wasn’t

crimson, but it

was red,

deep and true and

real and right.

the color of

her heart- not

the crimson inside but

just the outside,

the shell of

who she was.

red.

magenta.

she was slowly

fading into labels of

pink and flowery and

fragile and girl;

she took her crimson and

her carmine and

her red and

made it what

they wanted to see,

sliding into the

niche they had

set for her.

magenta.

carnation.

she changed not

only her color but

her title too; sacrificed

her identity for

a crayon color,

the kind that comes

in every Crayola

twelve-box.

carnation.

rose.

she couldn’t be

exquisite carnation, so

she chose the commoners’

bouquet, beautiful

but pale and limp and

wilted at the edges;

let her petals

peel away-

he loves me, he

loves me not.

rose.

grey.

she was eroding away

at what little

was left of

her color, as if

pale rose

just wasn’t

blanched enough.

she was cool

grey now, wispy

ghost-like wraiths of

feeble life.

grey.

white.

bleached like a

wedding dress,

with a kind of

faded, dusty elegance,

like a jewel, tarnished

with time, a

girl who had

lost her luster

long ago,

vacant,

barren,

empty,

colorless,

white.

nothing.

nothing.