By The Colours Vested In Me.

If my colours could speak, what would be revealed would be unique.

I force myself under a spotlight, my illuminated body now shining so bright.

To go deeper, I know I have to make an incision. A conviction made to know thyself, and so I step inside the prism.

Here it's exposed that I'm more than just brown, in a meteorological phenomenon I feel myself drown.

It starts to make sense why I don't feel adored, what is seen by my eye is not the colour absorbed.

It causes a war inside of me, releasing a rainbow of conflicting energy.

My red is a heart full of love and passion, but it comes with a warning to approach me with caution.

My orange is a voice that offers a barrage of compliments to you, but if you pour acetone on my red, hot lava will spew.

My yellow is my touch, radiating warmth and protection, but if you restrict my orange, you'll feel the power of rejection.

My green is my nature, so peaceful and calm, but if you abuse my yellow, I'll squeeze you in my palm.

My blue are my veins, giving my body life, but if you destroy my green, I can't be the best wife.

My indigo is my ego, relatively sane, but if you inject my blue, I'll smear you with Wolfsbane.

My violet is my aura, perfectly zen, but if you bruise my indigo, I'll seek revenge.

I step out of the prism; introspection complete.

My colours have spoken, no longer discreet.