Think of yourself as a color. You might not be everybody's favorite, but someday someone will need you to complete their picture.
I am moody mauve.
I combust, internally. I am intense, I am passionate. I am the lover's kiss you feel on the breeze on your way back from the beach four days after you aren't together any more. Or four weeks, or even months. I am the tangy taste of salt and iron on your cut lip on the dance floor. He bit down too hard, and you are shocked, but more exhilarated. I am happiness cloaked in regret, but I happened. So smile.
I am intense yellow.
I shine so bright you cannot bear to look at me for fear of hurting your eyes. I am the noon sunlight! I am the sound of the banshee scream in the museum piercing your ears and yet somehow your brain still works. Don't touch me, I get dirty easily, tainted by the smallest bits of unfortunate that doesn't run away from my dazzle. If you think you can, handle me with care. I'm high maintenance.
I am funky fuchsia.
I am that preteen with the sisterhood jeans and the strap on barbie bag that my mum got me when I was nine. I don't have enough pocket money to buy a new one, but I do have enough for some mint, and to harbour hopes for dates at the McD - how about we split it even? - and to romanticise the looming fuchsia bottomed clouds as the sun sets, warning of the storm to come.
I am creepy cyan.
I am actually that goth chick, the one that everybody notices and pretends not to see, the girl in your face with her multiple piercings and all the things you wanted to do as a punk rock wannabe in the 80's a part of her life. I#ll grow up to be okay, with a doting husband and a kid too snotty and smiles and few regrets.
I am perfect peach.
I am mild, caring, concerned, prim and proper. My legs, underarms and pussy is always brazilian, but my skirt is never above my knees. I know when to say what where to whom and how. I wear pearls. I attend charities. I host them. I reek of forced smiles and fake laughter. I am screaming underneath my base layer of foundation. I want to be let out, breathe in the cold fresh air and get my elbows dirty, but then I'll have to deep moisturize it to get rid of the muck and dry skin. I'm a smiler. I'm classy. I'm absolutely delightful.
I am nitty-gritty grey.
I am the unskilled labourer down the manhole. I am the non-descript accountant ladling out soup for the homeless on a chilly Saturday morning. I am the soldier braving the bite of the wind in the land of sweeping saffron to save those behind me from pure evil. I get down and dirty. I work out the logistics of it all and then gulp one shot of scotch, single malt. The plane is far away now and the lack of my wife's silken touch leaves a familiar feel of being barren. I am grief with a purpose. I am the son who murdered his corrupt bankrupt drunkard wife-beating father, long after his mother's death. I am ruthless and vengeance in perfect disguise.
I am sweeping saffron.
I am rich and finery defined. I am the taste of fresh vanaspati at the back of your mouth hot from your mother's crisp dosas. I am the scent of incense, soft and everywhere. I make you heady. I clear you up. I could pull the wool over your eyes if I wanted to, but I am responsible. I am enigmatic. I am the liger in this forest and when I roar, your legs will pull you in line.
The top block-quoted line is a popular feel-good quote, I believe. Coupled with the first line, which was part of a lesson I had for school about bangle makers in Firozabad, it made a beautiful prompt.
This will be updated as and when I think of new colors. If you have an interesting one, leave it in the comments below. :)