It is the color you see when you realize someone has stolen your butterflies. You can’t find them. Another girl flaunts them in front of your face. Your butterflies are hers now… he gave them to her. Finders, keepers. The fire you feel in your throat when you scream you don’t care. You do. And you hate yourself for it.
It is the pelvis to pelvis lambada – forbidden dance. Slowly cascading and thinking my, the things I’d like to do to you.
It is the signature you left all over his body, scavenger hunting to find the marks. X marking the spot in every crevice. The feeling of resentment when you realize that kissing him is engraved in muscle memory and touching another just doesn’t feel… normal.
It is your hand around his neck when you’re angry. His hand around your heart when he’s lonely.
The regurgitation once you relapse.
It is the volume of your voice hitting heaven’s gates when you beg to let it go. The lasting effects of desperation.
The frustration in trying to remember a person you have never met. The frustration in trying to forget someone whose impression is embedded in your bed, name embedded in the cusp of your throat – love embedded in your memories.
The spark of passion you feel after finding yourself in a gold mine. A coal mine. You are diamond.
Shoes and lips. High heels and higher standards. It is confidence once you finally uncover it from an ancient burial ground. It is commanding attention and no longer apologizing for assertion.
Its lighter shade is the flutter in your stomach when you’re finally ready for something new. Finally. Because someone will call you ‘Beautiful’ like it’s the only name they’ve ever known you by.
So let her keep the butterflies.