It's the color of your bruises, healing slowly, dotting your legs. It's the taste of your meals coming back up, of the mints that you chew afterwards to hide your addiction. It's the color of the pants that have grown to big. It's the vapor of your breath when you see the other girls, skinny without effort. It's the color of the tiles your little sister found you shivering and collapsed on, bones clacking like a skeleton. It curls around you like a vice, leaving you to envy the others, but bright enough to leave you hoping for a new tomorrow; it's also the color of your plant, the only thing you care for, in the spring. It's burnt, smoky flavor is something you never gave up, something that stayed down. It's the color that's leaving your dying fingers and beginning to live again. It's the color of your breath when you're on the slopes with your family. It's what curls around your tongue in the fresh pine trees in the summer as you dance, leaving minty swirls in your wake. It's the taste of the earth beneath your bare feet, sinking into the mulch and dirt, feeling the planet's heartbeat under your dirty toes.