Love, Sex, and Hate are Red

She's spent most of her life wishing she would look good in pink. She bought the right shirts, right shoes, she put her hair just so. Ribbons, gloss, that sort of thing.

Everyone wondered, behind her back of course, who did she think she was? She wasn't the same. She was different. And not different enough to make her special, mind you, but different enough that she could never be like them.

As a little girl these thigns went on, as an adolescent they continued, and as a teenager she tried even harder. It was a secret struggle, something inside her saying that she was different but she could still be the same. She could be that same bubblegum beauty of other girls. She didn't want different anymore.

A part of her, the part she was most ashamed of, wished she wasn't the way she was. She wished her hair were blond. Her skin fair. Her lips pink. Her eyes blue. She wanted it so much she grew almost bitter, "they are making me outcast" she thought.

She was wrong. She liked to tell herself it was only in her mind, that everyone could see the same sort of wonder in her as everyone else. She convinced herself that in everyone else's eyes, if she tried hard, walked right, made her breasts seem a little bigger, that she could look great in pink.

But now, now things are different. Realities must be faced. She is an adult. She can't hope for "cute" or "darling" or "sweet."

Only a thousand other words that only work well with red.

And i'll tell you, She looks stunning in red.