It’s the color of rage. Clenched fists and tense muscles, deafening silence and a ringing in ears, a haze settling over vision. Being so angry that tears start to fall. Anger, hatred, biting words. Wrath. Red.
It’s the color of danger. Blinking lights, police sirens, the blare of an alarm ringing in your ears. Barricades lining the street keeping people away. Warning signs, stay away, do not proceed. Caution. Orange.
It’s the color of warmth. Sunshine on upturned cheeks, the tickling of grass underneath shoulder blades, soft breeze caressing bare skin. A hand in yours, pointing out shapes in clouds. Spring day, summer wind, sand under toes. Contentment. Yellow.
It’s the color of deceiving. Biting into an oatmeal cookie but expecting chocolate, the snap of a green bean before it is cooked, a sting of betrayal as he chooses another. A burning bitterness at the depths of your being. Envy, disgust, a tinge of freshness. Wrong. Green.
It’s the color of sorrow. Funeral clothes and oversized glasses, dark skies inside the soul, arms clutched tight against your chest. Standing alone in a hallway as people pass. Numbness, sharp pain, a feeling of dread. Sadness. Blue.
It’s the color of pep. The smile of a cheerleader encouraging the crowd, the ‘A’ marked on a test you struggled with, a compliment given in passing. A tickling at the base of you because of another’s kind words. Unexpected joy, perkiness, passing happiness. Excitement. Purple.
It’s the color of love. The heat of blush springing into cheeks, the scent of a Valentine’s carnation, chocolates hidden in a locker. The grasp of a hand slipping into yours. Nerves, butterflies, first kiss. Hope. Pink.
It’s the color of comfort. A blanket wrapped around shoulders, the soft patter of rain on glass, warm glass of hot chocolate clutched in your hands. A book resting open on curled up knees. Muted colors, no plans, lazy afternoon. Resting. Gray.
It’s the color of nothing. Loss of feeling and empathy, will to exist falling away, the aftermath of destruction. I’m not angry, just disappointed. A void, taste of licorice, waiting to move on. Continuing. Black.
It’s the color of creation. An unmarked page waiting to be drawn on, the clicking of a typewriter, the spark of inspiration. Clears skies after a hurricane. Brightness, fresh sheets, content. Living. White.