That red wouldn't suit her, because she was Winter.
Red is alive. She supposed that meant she was not.
They gave her blue instead; blue to match her lips.
Blue to match her heart.
They gave her ivory to match her skin and ebony to match her dreams.
They told her she was beautiful.
Then Winter met a boy.
He was Summer, they said.
All bright suns and fluttering steps.
He was red, orange, yellow; every wonderful thing in the world.
Red is alive. She supposed that meant he was.
Red wouldn't suit her, she knew.
She was blues, whites, blacks; all cold nights and lonely walks.
But he told her she was beautiful.
Summer touched her and burned her skin.
He kissed her blue heart and left it pumping.
They had given her blue to match her lips.
But he left her blood laced with red.
They told her that red wouldn't suit her, because she was Winter.
He told her nothing and left her with only lingers of red.
She knew red had soiled her beauty.
They told her she was Winter.
That Summer could never be hers.
Summer left her so she supposed they were right.
She missed him; his warm hair and sun skin.
Her ebony dreams are fringed with red; her ivory skin is burned.
That's the type of man Summer was.
They don't think she is beautiful anymore.
She doesn't find it in herself to care.
Red suits her just fine.
