Rain-bow

I got my colours done a few weeks a-go. My sisters paid for it, for my birth-day. They said I have looked sallow sin-ce the thing. I probably did. Am. Will be. Anyway. I went to this lady, she sat me down and said, you must stop wear-ing yellow and white. I hadn’t realised I was. Yellow, that is. White I know a-bout. I like white. Liked. It’s blank-ness was a com-fort. I wore it be-fore the thing. But she said, no more white. She said red made me look over-heated like those cigarette light-ers you find in old cars. I don’t mind looking like a swirl of rings, but she said no and my sisters had paid for it so I obeyed her. Obey. Blue? Also out. Not for me, she said. Blue was a cooling col-our and I need to be an even temp-erature, she said. Like a bath after you’ve given the water five minutes to set-tle down. I have no bubbles to speak of. We n-arrowed it down. We dis-missed orange (too trop-ical), and brown (over bear-ing). I asked about magenta and she said may-be. She said green is best for me. It b-rings out the colour in my veins. And maroon. Ma-roon. Maro-on. That was me. My per-sonal colour, she said. It’s all I wear no-w. Those two colours.
Sp-lit me in half.
Chop my me-mories.
I search for somewhere to piece it all back to-get-her.