Purple

A poem

You are not my first instance of purple.

Your malevolent color, filled with loathing and shame.

No. I met purple years and years before you.

Lighthearted, naive and playful. It was.

Not the vicious demon hiding behind a destructive smile.

It said its name sounded funny, and made silly faces when it spoke.

It wanted to be liked. Even, to be loved. By me.

It was pure and beautiful.

Unlike the one in you.

In you the color turned vile, dark and mean.

It slithered instead of skipped.

It morphed and metastasized into something I could not trust.

It accused and blamed me, brought me low. Unknown to myself.

You took this color from me. You damaged it for me.

You made me not love it.

The purple is no more.