Color

Her favorite weapon was color. Color, adhering to no anatomy, bleeds, stains, and obscures.

She threw on some shadow of Greece, for depth, and immediately frowned. “Where is that hypnotic violet when I need it?” Hint of anger and full-bodied blush fell flat. She dabbed on a bit of the deep deep forest, and then doused it in layers of sunburnt flesh. For all her bold technique, hair of the dog just made mud. In a rage, she tried blood of the unborn twin.

Days later, she tried again. She furiously applied tooth yellow, burnt light bulb, light bulb too bright, light bulb too yellow. She tried three-day bruise, paper cut, and back of the ear. Dismayed by excessive loveliness, she disappeared again.

A third time, she came back. She tried bend of the knuckle; dark of the moon; fingernail, cut, and uncut; skin of the egg; dirty leather. Despairing, she covered the whole with white of the eye. Before running away again, she turned, and decided it was good.