Shirts and Rainbows
Everything was red. Like roses and like blood.
I used to like red. Not so much anymore.
Not red or orange like my hair because I hate myself since it's all my fault. Not yellow like the sun outside or green like the grass. Not the pretty blue of your outfit or the prettier blue of your eyes. Not white like that shirt or silvery-grey like bullets.
I hate colors now. That's why I did it. I needed to get rid of the colors and black is the absence of them. That's why I used the black magic. Well, also there was the "wanting vengeance" thing, but that isn't as beautiful an inner monologue as colors, y'know?
I don't want to see rainbows anymore because they all remind me of you.
Giles took me to England, but I can't appreciate the pretty landscape. I look up at the sky and all I can see is that shirt in the clouds and your eyes in the blue.
I hate the mornings, now. I used to love them, waking up and seeing you. But now, every day, I have to put on my clothes, and I have to put on my shirt, and I can only think about that last thing you said to me. I wish I could just, like, not wear a shirt. I mean, that would be weird, but I just can't take it. Shirts shouldn't be so depressing. They cover you up and keep you warm.
I'm not wearing a shirt right now, baby. I'm in the bathtub.
Now I'll never have to see any colors again. I'll never have to see the violet of the car that I chased him down in.
I'll never have to see the green of the vines that restricted him.
I'll never have to see the gray of the bullet that I used to torture him.
Or the fleshy pink of his skinless body.
The orange fire I used to burn it.
All I need is a little more red. See you soon, Tara.