Status: for lizz
Basic Color Theory
the nature of primary colors
If people were born in shades as vibrant as the ones smeared across her paint palette, Lexa would've been adorned in red. Brilliant fire engine red at her core, deep crimson red like blood smeared across her fingertips, and the lightest hint of magenta burning in her irises. It was the color of passion, the color of rage, the hue that marked each of life's most intense emotions, so Clarke couldn't think of a shade more fitting to paint the other girl's portrait in.
Because of Lexa was anything, she was most certainly intense.
Clarke tried her hardest not to think of the other emotion red represented, the one it was most notoriously known for, because thinking of Lexa and thinking of that word was more heartache than she could stand.
After all, it was Lexa who'd first told her that love was a weakness.
She chose to paint herself in shades of blue because, at that point in time, she couldn't have possibly felt any more blue. It was the color of loneliness, of sadness, the same shade fingertips turn as they grow numb from the cold. It was the same hue that adorned the bright summer sky that had once stretched out above them, a beacon of openness and endless possibilities.
Clarke had allowed herself to be open, to be vulnerable, and now she was growing numb.
Though she couldn't deny the sharp ache that sliced through her chest as she recreated each of Lexa's features, the act was also oddly therapeutic in a sense. As she focused on the curve of the other girl's Cupid bow, the gentle slope of her nose, she became completely immersed in the process, in the delicate intricacy of each brushstroke, that she almost forgot how much she missed waking up in her arms, the way the morning sunlight warmed her features, glinted through her ash brown locks. Clarke didn't think about the way their lips blurred purple at the seams with each kiss or how her bedroom always smelled of fresh, soothing lavender.
She'd tried to forget the bouquet of lilacs Lexa had once left on her nightstand as a birthday gift and how delicate the muted petals had felt between her fingertips. More than anything though, she spent most nights trapped in the vision of memory of how the other girl's lips had left her fair skin covered in shades of mottled purple like butterfly wings, the way she'd lost herself in the sensation, in the passion of it all.
It was the first time in her life that Clarke had ever let herself go: allowed herself to be unrestrained and live entirely in the moment.
Lexa's lips burned slow like freedom, and Clarke was content to be devoured by her inferno.
But purple was the color of devotion and also bruises. It was the emblem soldiers were awarded after they'd been wounded in battle, and though she certainly felt scarred, she wasn't sure she was worthy of the honor.
So she painted herself as blue as the sea and let herself drown in it.
Because of Lexa was anything, she was most certainly intense.
Clarke tried her hardest not to think of the other emotion red represented, the one it was most notoriously known for, because thinking of Lexa and thinking of that word was more heartache than she could stand.
After all, it was Lexa who'd first told her that love was a weakness.
She chose to paint herself in shades of blue because, at that point in time, she couldn't have possibly felt any more blue. It was the color of loneliness, of sadness, the same shade fingertips turn as they grow numb from the cold. It was the same hue that adorned the bright summer sky that had once stretched out above them, a beacon of openness and endless possibilities.
Clarke had allowed herself to be open, to be vulnerable, and now she was growing numb.
Though she couldn't deny the sharp ache that sliced through her chest as she recreated each of Lexa's features, the act was also oddly therapeutic in a sense. As she focused on the curve of the other girl's Cupid bow, the gentle slope of her nose, she became completely immersed in the process, in the delicate intricacy of each brushstroke, that she almost forgot how much she missed waking up in her arms, the way the morning sunlight warmed her features, glinted through her ash brown locks. Clarke didn't think about the way their lips blurred purple at the seams with each kiss or how her bedroom always smelled of fresh, soothing lavender.
She'd tried to forget the bouquet of lilacs Lexa had once left on her nightstand as a birthday gift and how delicate the muted petals had felt between her fingertips. More than anything though, she spent most nights trapped in the vision of memory of how the other girl's lips had left her fair skin covered in shades of mottled purple like butterfly wings, the way she'd lost herself in the sensation, in the passion of it all.
It was the first time in her life that Clarke had ever let herself go: allowed herself to be unrestrained and live entirely in the moment.
Lexa's lips burned slow like freedom, and Clarke was content to be devoured by her inferno.
But purple was the color of devotion and also bruises. It was the emblem soldiers were awarded after they'd been wounded in battle, and though she certainly felt scarred, she wasn't sure she was worthy of the honor.
So she painted herself as blue as the sea and let herself drown in it.