PRIMARY COLORS

i. red 
is splattered everywhere like paint—only it isn’t paint. like monet, he was a painter. but while monet used nine, he used one color exclusively—red, the color of intensity. great artists squeezed paint out from tin tubes but as for him, beat blue and broken, he squeezed paint out from his faintly beating heart. chest heaving, the coppery tang still sharp in the air. with shaking breaths and bitter tears the boy carved out red lines, the beginnings of his masterpiece damaged by design. 

he slaps brushstroke after brushstroke down, spilling blood in the water for the sharks of reality; wildest of red petunias and poppies bloomed as he painted them to life. all these artists had their paintings sought after, cherished—oh to be valued like monet, immortalized as impressionist of sunrise and van gogh, exalted as expressionist of the starry night. as for him, scabs and scars formed over his broken mind, marring the heart of his art—red paint. after every time, he wonders in bitter amusement how it is possible that he is still numb. in silence he wished he felt a little shred of life, enough to hope that he is worth something. in agony he asks himself over and over and o-v-e-r again—

what is the dead artist’s effect?

ii. yellow
like rays of sun sparks stream out from her—golden girl is all she is. society says that laughter is the best medicine, so she blinks blindly and laughs with wild abandon; perhaps she can cure herself. 

everyone’s golden girl by day, mere faceless facade by night. she is a fake, a person she cannot recognize anymore. she is pyrite masquerading as twenty-four carat—worthless, but with an appearance that fools people into thinking she is so much more than shiny fool’s gold. what is the meaning of the color yellow? she searches to no avail as the same words smirk at her, mocked by “yellow is of hope and happiness.” yet tucked away, in small letters like a suppressed whisper, taunting truths seep out: yellow is a symbol of [her] cowardice, of [her] sickness, of [her] betrayal, of [her] madness. slowly, slowly, the golden—no, pyrite girl—shatters away against the hammer of life, smiling and laughing as she descends (alone) into her spiral of yellow. unbeknownst, she is screaming at society all the way down—

why can’t i be happy, too?

iii. blue 
rolls down his cheeks, large droplets of what the heart craves to say but cannot put into words. a slight sheen forms across his eyes, glistening like morning dew formed from the frigid, apathetic touch of night. crumpled in the bathroom, he clenches his fists until all his knuckles have been cracked thrice-over, until the pale-blue of his veins threaten to burst through his paper-thin skin. crumpled against the scratched wooden door, he lets his shoulders shake—irrepressible hysteria. crumpled on the laminated floor, he presses his face to the ground, a puddle forming on that swollen, water-damaged corner from all the past times he was in this exact same position. 

and then he scrapes the tears off his face with his nail-bitten hands. he peels off his salt-soaked skin. he glues an unblemished one on, preparing to tell everyone not to worry about him because of course he was fine, why wouldn’t he be? because he was just not good enough, because he was undeserving of their concern. but as he walks out with the blankest of faces and the most neutral of expressions, he is still begging for an answer. knowing that today is another day of hollow hopes when he asks in vain—

when will i really be enough?

by Isabel Gan