Poem #3: Pantone 1925

In pink there is hope. It's a diluted version of myself - fiery and red and hot and angry, anxiously loud and crackling.

Eating everything up and destroying everything around it, fueled simply by breath, causing damage to innocent trees which only seek to grow and show their faces to the sun. The white, the rain, it softens it, makes the red whisper and hiss and relax, turns the fire down, dampens its damage. Makes it less shocking and more bearable. The palate goes from dangerous and fear-inducing to smile begetting. But not without first leaving a path of destruction behind it. How do I get to the middle ground faster? How do I turn the rain on myself? With practice, and patience, and self-reflection, and compassion, and work, so much work, I'll be able to dial back the intensity, turn down the stove to simmer, be a pink light that encourages closeness, and warmth, and the season of autumn, without scorching like an endless summer. I must remove the self-inflicted pressure to go and take over like a wildfire, and let the white take me from time to time. To relax, to sleep, to be thoughtful, to be quiet. But never to snuff me out, just to beautify my hue. It is my best color.