Everything around me is beige.
The floor.
The walls.
The ceiling.
The blinds.
Even the lights.
A smooth, bland, featureless tan-brown, like a cup of coffee with too much milk in it.
Surfaces and objects and illumination all blending together into one continuous smear of sameness.
The days, too, are all blending together.
Day after day, week after week, month after month.
Endless beige days in a tiny beige box.
My skin looks almost beige in the light.
I risk being blended away myself, one continuous smear of sameness of time and place and self.
Reduced to a smudge in the background, all but indistinguishable from the countless other beige smudges.
It's something that I can easily avoid.
The days and the walls and the light can threaten to dye my skin beige as much as they please, but!
My blood will always run red.
My eyes will always flash green.
My teeth with always gleam white.
The fire inside of me will not, cannot be extinguished.
The glowing power fueling me will not, cannot be exhausted.
The churning pool of dark water within me will not, cannot be drained.
The days and the walls and the light can drop me head-first into a vat of beige paint if they please, but!
Beneath that thin veneer, beneath that surface, beneath that skin, my true colors can and will forever remain.