You say I remind you of a color, but you can never put your finger on it. I ask, and question, and berate you for an answer, yet you whimper in fear and say you can’t recall. Maybe if I jog your memory, maybe if I scream at you with the rage of a thousand suns, the whites of my eyes bursting blood vessels from using so much oxygen to scold you. Maybe if I hit you, slap you, make sure you know you’re mine, you’ll understand that the swollen marks on your skin are my way of telling you I love you. I love you so much that when you do something wrong, I just want to squeeze the life out of you, let you know you are incorrect. Maybe I’m the color of that dress I tell you to wear when we go out in public, so it takes away the attention from the marks I’ve left on you when you screw up. But, maybe I’m the color of your eyes when you look at me with such fury I become afraid of you for just a moment. Could I be the color of the bruises you leave on me after grabbing me so hard, your nails dig into my skin and make me bleed? Tell me, darling, truly. What color am I to you?