Colors of Her

27 Nov

By Zoe Knight
11th Grade


It was summer and all you would remember was broken blades of grass sticking to the back of your legs and meeting her. She was green and you liked that. If she knew of love, it was still fairy tale naïve, moss towers with princesses awaiting a kiss. Already serpent envious of innocence, you kissed her. And the jungle of the Amazon came alive inside you both. Her soft lips, your rough lips, grasping grabbing gasping, green dreams seeping out of her and into you. Together you wandered under tornado skies, drank from jade glass bottles that she dropped and then collected the broken pieces. Why, you asked her. And she said because broken things are beautiful. That’s why she loved you and you knew it. You were her bad girl, her rebellion. And she was your naïve girl, your green lover. Broken glass. Broken girls. Both green.


Sea colored tassels hanging in translucent air, dancing bodies suspended quietly. Your eyes roll upwards and the ceiling is faded sky and you are aware of flying. Flying in the calm of your heart swelling like ocean waves as you trace the dips and crests of her body. The calm ends as the song fades because you did not wind the music box enough for the melody to play. And you swear the song is the color of her eyes, plastic blue rimmed in thunderstorms. You swear it is her eyes that match the song because she wound the box while you watched her in the mirror. Bare back, movements rippling across the fluorescent skin, blue jeans settling on her hips the way you wanted to settle your lips on hers. The song played again, blue. The tassels danced again, blue. Her eyes found yours in the mirror again, blue.


The sunrises you watched with her were blinding, the harsh orange light pounding you into a pulp. She kisses you and her cinnamon taste scorches your lungs, leaving a fire in its wake. The only way to subdue the flame is with one more kiss and she gives it willingly. She’s another addiction, another smoldering cigarette you wrap your trembling fingers around when the sticky amber of indifference threatens to capture you like ancient insects. You see her smile and you’re fine and then you take a step back. She has you living in a tangerine dream and you’re not sure if you want to wake up. Autumn is long this year and the trees are still holding on to their dying leaves. So you do too, stroking the embers in your lungs, hoping for a resurgence. There is none. And so you ask yourself if loving her is an addiction or a habit. Is there joy in orange light? Is there desire in cinnamon kisses? Is there safety in amber cages?

Your favorite scent was lavender before she started wearing it. She wore it for you and you understood too much. She felt she was losing you and lavender began to smell like desperation instead of love. She didn’t know you were already lost, since the last sunset you watched together, the one where the clouds were colored wisteria. You were purple bruises and she was lilac veins, still whole despite your attempts to make them explode beneath her florescent skin. You started smoking cigarettes in your car, trying to drown her presence in nicotine and tobacco. Sometimes the smoke had a plum tinge and you would roll down the window and watch it float away. Her “I love yous” were colored with pansy fear, waiting to see if you would say it back. When you did, it was harsh and scraping. You kissed her violently, violet lips sticky with power. Your once sweet possession shifted into arrogance and twilight set upon you both. Her lavender bruises. Her pansy fear. Your violet power.


You liked to drive when it snowed. You liked to take her with you, strapped into the passenger side, fingers fiddling with the heat. Hot, cold, hot, cold. Then the radio, sound waves bouncing through the bleached space between you. And you would drive, eyes never leaving the chalky road, mind never leaving her, going 30 35 40, through city streets and then out of them. Too cold, she said. She was too cold and was reaching for the heat with ivory hands when headlights made her an angel. White snow, white light, white mind. You are no longer the snow driver. You buried yourself in the ashes that floated around the wreck, buried your thoughts in milky smoke. The only thing you drive now is that memory around and around until the whites of your eyes are a continuous loop of that day. White snow, white light, white mind.



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