Chartreuse

Chartreuse. The bruise-like undereye tint from another sleepless night.

I wade through sepia days of antiquated tropes about my place or the game or the worth of my work or my cat called name.

Peusilonymous to my value, expressed in US dollars, is my fame. Denim appears relaxed, likeability is key. I remember from the time you told me about my resting bitch face. Charcoal is slimming, best to appear small, you don't want to waste anyone's space. Taupe is safe, don't be too loud in case someone brilliant wants to speak. If a pop color is present, curtail it with greige so they aren't offended by your matte gold star, the one you sanded and buffed and scrubbed till it's shine faded so their satisfaction couldn't wane.

Trim and tuck and toil and eye fuck and do what you need to do for the bag. They can't cut you down, you're glitter right?

But dull glitter is dust. And when the shine is stymied time after time you find yourself faking pride instead of the lines.

The paper white lines of growth and success and work life balanced you were promised when betrothed through this one sided prenup of an HR agreement.

Glossy white like the eyes, the ones they looked into when they said you weren't enough, that sometimes you have to make business decisions like I hadn't babysat your dog or hugged you when that boy made you blue or left my family and friends and did anything you needed to make you a bit more green.

UV white like the veneers you never got, spreading ear to ear but never to make a sound, then maybe they would have kept you around.

Desaturated. Those eyes, that used to be aqua blue green like the ocean you came here for in the first place, ash.

Who are you without this? You're turning clear. You're disappearing into that mud colored low contrast background that everything looks like now.

How could this happen? How could it be me? What am I without you?

And it hits you every day, and your cheeks flush cadmium out of humiliation and rage and you water it down into rose colored frames you shove onto your face trying to convince yourself you're better off this way.

And each day the pink tint of the frames matches your bloodshot eyes a little less and the heat from your cheeks comes from sunshine not humiliation.

And that crimson capillary on your cheek that you couldn't unsee it just isn't that red anymore.

And the chartreuse under your eyes turns flesh.

And the veneerless teeth, those teeth you used to grind to dust out of fear and pressure and mistrust, Just off-white enough, and robust.

And the grinding just stops and the jaw forgives you and the yellow acid bile stops boiling and the anger stops exploding and you don't get called anything you don't want and all those people who forgot you are turning clear in your memory.

And you get to move on and mow your emerald green lawn and look into your dog's velvet brown eyes without thinking about a deadline and the putrid dead weight of your own self doubt rotted off to reveal an orange Julius flavored sweetness that you finally get to taste because who cares if you gain five pounds and you reconnect with your creativity and everything is metallic and has sheens and finishes and transparencies and you can finally see because you're exactly who you're supposed to be.

And the ocean glows teal again. And your teeth look exactly white enough. And you're ready to live.

And it comes back little by little like that crappy movie Pleasantville and you can see it better now because of the simultaneous contrast of grief of what you lost.

And now you're neon. You're elemental, emitting power with a buzzing hum of electric magenta and cyan and lime and that blinding but soft elegance that only has sharp edges when she's broken.