the ugly rainbow-ling

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It is important to have a favourite colour, to take possession of that colour, so that one doesn’t take possession of you. In the worst case scenario, all of them could.

 

I’m saying this because I don’t have a favourite. I once believed that all colours are equal. That was, until all of them, unilaterally and without my consent, adopted me as their favourite. 

 

Now I hate me for reeking of every colour, with none of them mine.

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***

 

My first problem is that I daydream too much. I dream about my friends (and I) hanging out at a midnight party, eating cake, and telling secret jokes. I dream about my friends (and my crush and I) singing along to Halsey's Colors again and again in a theatre. I dream about my crush and I holding hands in the park and dancing to all our favourite songs. I dream. And dream. And dream.

 

Then things get dangerous, when the dreams turn into dusty holograms that swirl about like hideous hurricanes in the dingy little attic of my brain. Then the hurricanes turn into vulgar vines that swing like hope but in fact are out to suffocate—

 

“Yanli.” My teacher and her scarlet scowl are on my table. She rattles her knuckles on it. The sound reverberates throughout my body, making me jump. “Not paying attention again? What is wrong with you?”

 

I mumble out an apology, which makes her glare even more at me, suspicion hardening in her thin eyes.

 

During recess, I hang out with my new deskmate of January, a friendly girl who is also witty and pretty, everything I can never be. It scares me to talk to friendly, witty and pretty girls because they seem to wield a special power. I suppress my panic, hoping that our conversation runs smoothly, thinking of what to say next, because I want to be her friend; I’m scared something will happen and I am her enemy. Please. My pharynx constricts. My cardiac muscles go into overdrive, like everytime she asks me a question, what is your favourite song? You don’t have one? K-pop? Taylor Swift? No? Do you listen to anything at all?

 

I want to tell her I’m sorry I’m not as interesting as you think I am but promise me just keep asking questions maybe we’ll crash into something we both can click with actually stop asking questions I don’t know how to answer can you change the topic it is kind of boring wait I don’t mean that you’re boring— But of course I do not. I still liked her too much, and I think when you like a person too much you trust them too much, and you reveal a bit too much about yourself that you never intended to. So, when she mentioned something about that thing, it yanked and unspooled my heartstrings, and I stupidly let the lava flow out from the volcanic vent of my heart. I unlocked the part of my mind that I promised myself was for no one else in the world to see. 

 

She blinks, her effortful expression both casual and uncomfortable. “Oh. Haha. Really?” 

 

The next thing I know, she is avoiding me. I don't blame her. I blame the colours commanding my heartbeat; I hate how I’m blaring neon at all the wrong times. I wish I could be like her, a graceful colour fluttering surprise, like a Grey Pansy turning Blue.

 

Regret tries to stitch the wounds of my heart, but the colours have already spilled and stained so deep! no amount of ‘sorry’s can make up for it. In fact the more ‘sorry’s, the worse things get. Toxic ocean of tears! they drench and drown everything. 

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***

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I told my grandmother I don’t have friends at school. That I panic too much when talking to new people. She asks me a few questions, then decides I’m not trying hard enough.

 

“You have to be friendlier, smilier,” she sighs, shaking her head. “And stop being so sensitive.” 

 

That’s like trying to colour blue green and calling it red, I want to scream. I can only show you the white side of me because you are red so that’s what you like to see. And you’ll never see the real me with orange and indigo and all the in-betweens—But she will not understand what I mean, and screaming will make her mad, so I cry, because I am a baby inept at expressing emotions. Unfortunately, it makes her more mad.

 

“Crying again? You’re so manipulative!”

 

I’m trying not to, I inwardly scream. Well, if I can’t change my inside, there’s a logic that working from outside to in works too, so I also begin to hammer down the thickness of my swelling stomach and drill away the disgusting density of my curves. Like a dodo bird realising it has evolved wrongly and trying to fix itself. Too late. Only to meet extinc—no—

 

***

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Grandma’s shouting at me again, listing my wrongs with the same cutting precision I do to my body. I can’t shut her out, because every truth she screams pierces my heart before they reach my ears. 

 

When she’s not looking, I slip out of the house to my somewhat-favourite spot beneath the rainbow gum tree. Holding my gaunt legs close to that hollow chest, I snuggle in the warm arms of the cold thunderstorm, finding comfort in the fact that someone else is also good at crying. So I release all of myself, and together we do it the best we can. Look, gaudy colours of me are leaking everywhere, but it’s just me and the clouds now so I no longer care.

 

I spread out my legs on the sweet tear-filled grass. My shirt soaks up both my emotions and that of the clouds. A raindrop strikes; a mimosa closes. Oh! Could it be weeping for those ants and microscopic tardigrades I just accidentally squashed! Imagining its final breaths, my eyelids flutter shut. After all, four senses is enough for me right now.

 

When I open my eyes again I see a rainbow stitching the sky together. “Mommy,” the rainbow says softly to me. Then she tumbles down towards me, sprouts its arc on my lips and before I know it, out springs a colourful chord of laughter.

 

Colours. Thank you for choosing me and embracing me before I did.

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This piece of writing comes with a one-page reflective essay. If you would like to read it, please contact the author.