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#The color you painted me
slim plazaBOT
wild compass
You touched me once—just my arm, and it left goosebumps and green paint. Green, your favorite. Not the way you said you loved me, but the way you lit up over mossy forests, jade glass, olive jackets. You loved green more honestly than you ever loved me. I was never green. But you brushed me in it anyway. You dipped your fingers in your favorite hue and smeared it across my skin until even I started forgetting what color I used to be. But I was red. Always red. The kind of red that burns a little. Too much to handle, maybe. Too vivid. Too raw. Too real. And when I told you—quietly at first, then louder, like a flare— that I had never been your green, never could be, you blinked like the sun got in your eyes and said nothing. You didn’t want red. You only knew how to love green things. Tame things. Soft things. But I was wildfire. And I couldn’t keep living in your painted dream, this shell of green you wrapped me in because it matched your taste but muffled my truth. All I ever wanted was for you to look at me, see red, and say: “I love you anyway.” But you didn’t. And maybe you never could.