When I say I am the color blue, I mean exactly that. I don't let being depressed define me, but I can't lie that is some of the pigment. I was the rarest color in nature, I was a starflower, as indigo as his eyes, loving like the sea is to the sand, always crashing back no matter how many times it is swept back. He knew the day he met me, I was the color of the sky, but he didn't care. I thought this was love, this is someone who didn't care if I was sad he knew he could make me happy even for a little bit. I didn't see any warning signs. He covered up his color well, unlike me. It wasn't all destructive but when I did realize he was red, manipulative, quick to anger, obsessive, it was too late I already loved him. I gave him everything. I nurtured his red while he started shaming my blue while merging with other colors. We had become purple and I was so blinded by our mixture to see the mental abuse that I had always preached against. It wasn't all bad, at first it was like it is in movies. I don't just mean the honeymoon phase but years of loving each other, years of laughing about anything and everything, flowers, dancing in the kitchen, making cookies, but filling your cup up while leaving mine empty was draining. We loved each other wrong and again I was blinded by the lilac sky when you decided purple wasn't your color anymore.