Wings

‘What color are my wings?’ I ask myself. Red is my first thought. But no, red is a color for anger, an emotion I possess little of. ‘Black!’ I exclaim. But there is light in me, so black will not do.1

Yellow and orange are too bright. Pink is everything I’m not. Blue is a neutral color, despite some of its light sadness, but I am not quite neutral.2

Purple is bruised, battered, and torn, as some say. But not all of me is such. I have a touch of golden here and there. 3

‘How does one convey the exact hue, the exact texture of such a thing as that?’4

I do not belong to white; my innocence is splotched with crimson stains no matter how hard I scrub to cleanse myself.5

The thought of crimson brings me back to the meaning of my first thought. Red is not only anger, but of blood and pain and romance.6

And black is not pure dark; even shadows contain at least a hint of light. The black coating upon the outside of my shell leaks, causing streams of light to come pouring out from time to time.7

The more I think about it, the brighter this picture becomes. 8

The feathers that color my wings have no overall hue. The outer layer is the darkest shade of black. The layer underneath is purple, exposing the bruised and beaten parts of my being. The purple fades to blue, uncovering my despair. And hiding under the layer of blue, there lies a layer of feather the color of crimson, exposing my pain and my romantic side that hides beneath my pain, sorrow, depression, and the rest of my emotions. Beneath the red is a color of purity and innocence: white. But the final layer, underneath all of my emotions and all of my pain, there lies the golden prize: happiness.9

So when I ask myself, ‘What color are my wings?’ I know not how to answer simply. My wings are colored in layers, according to my intermost being: black, purple, blue, red, white, and gold.10

I mean, what can I say? I wear my heart on my wings.