O R A N G E
Imagine that everyone constantly thinks about how little you fit in. My defining characteristic is my inability to match something; another word, that is. I am both admired and faulted for my name, my name that carries no resemblance to any other word, no matter how much it's twisted around. "Oh-range...homage?" Sigh.
I make people uncomfortable. My name's refusal to play twinsies with other terms in the vernacular notwithstanding, my appearance is bold. Loud. Of the brights, yellow gets a bit more attention. She's cheerful; she reminds people of the sun. Of butter and gold and optimism. Me, I'm yellow with a rebellious streak of red; I carry more of a threatening fire. And so I divide people; I'm one of those "love or hate" scenarios. For those who love me, I'm their fave. For those who don't, they would stack all the other colours over me.
Still, I don't mind, so much. Just because I notice this mixed reaction doesn't mean that I let it wound me. I appreciate what I am. I take pride in my versatility. I'm in the softness of nature, the most delicate petal or monarch's wing. I'm the crisp, daring exterior of my namesake fruit. I'm artistic as a sunset, shocking as a traffic cone. I'm on the surface of autumn leaves and in the wax of crayons. I understand that the reason some people dislike me is the same reason people like me: I don't look or sound like anything else. I'm a reminder to be unapologetically you.