Magenta is all long legs.
It is knees and lipstick.
Magenta is teenage confidence,
and that feeling of giddy soaring.
Magenta is invulnerable and
smooths over the fissures
where crimson will crack every time.
Magenta thinks itself sophisticated,
and wants to be taken seriously.
But magenta has a lot to learn.
Nothing that ever lived
stayed magenta for long.
Nothing that remembers
or bleeds true red or
forgets to breathe sometimes or
stares off at blue calls itself
Magenta. Not for long anyway.
Because magenta is the color
of the thin veneer of youth
that wears off no matter
how often we dress ourselves