His parents painted him pink. Such a pretty little princess, they’d say. His mother dressed him in frills and his father bought him dolls. It didn’t matter that he wanted to run around with the other boys.
When he cried, they cooed to him, “See, Love? That’s why you’re pink.”
And thus a thorn grew in his heart.
His friends painted him yellow. He understood none of the pink world his friends were so fond of, but he was a good listener. He’d join the sleepovers, attend the parties and feign a smile in every single one. He’s not quite pink, and his friends noticed.
Not knowing what he is, they decided, “We think you’re yellow.”
Another thorn grows silently.
His boyfriend painted him red. Against his will, his body grows the marks of the deepest crimson. The tumors in his chest grew heavier each day and his hips won over his waist in the race of circumference.
While liberally applying red all over his petals, his boyfriend would often whisper into his ears, “You were born to be red.”
His thorns kept growing, inwards and out.
In solitude he let his petals fall, one by one: the red, the yellow, the pink, until he was left with nothing but his core.
Why was he born with a core when nobody can see it? His core carries a scent unique to him. His core has shapes and skills that are only his.
There in his nakedness, he found himself. But not pink, not yellow, not red.