When I was a little boy, my favorite color was lilac.

Lilac flowers, Lilac pens, lilac shirts, lilac hair.

The frivolity in my laugh had lilac beams shine bright through the gaps in my teeth.

The softness in my voice radiated lilac sound waves.

The empathy in my heart let me share my lilac with the world.

As I grew, my lilac was tediously diluted with the black muck that others had to offer.

I was willing to share with no reciprocation, but they insisted.

Years went by, and my lilac faded.

Until I didn’t even recognize myself.

I was no longer the lilac boy with the lilac heart.

The egregious amounts of melancholy were forced down my docile throat.

“I lost my lilac. Who am I without my lilac?” I’d ponder.

So I started my journey to retrieve my delicate lilac.

And I’d search and search for who could return it to me.

Then I realized.

My lilac is gone.

So I search for a new color.

Maroon? Cyan? Chartreuse? Turquoise?

I wore them all, confidently.

I tied them with ribbons and bows.

So pretty and neat,

I didn’t need the lilac.

So cutting, yet so beautiful, lilac was dead.

I was maroon or cyan or chartreuse or turquoise now.

Yet nothing made me glow, so bright, without my lilac soul.

I was trapped in a world of colors so unique,

Colors so discomfiting,

Where was my lilac?

“Lilac doesn’t define you”, she said.

“Lilac never existed to begin with”.

So once again I pondered.

Did I really miss my lilac? Was my lilac ever real?

No.

My lilac was the thing that went bump in the night,

The thing that made grown men cry.

It was staggering, knife-wielding against my soft, well-meaning skin,

Yet I wore it with a smile.

I made it lilac. It was always black muck.

The illusion made me feel safe.

It was never lilac all along.

I just perceived it as such.