briteliz
Violet. The color of my lover's eyes. The color of it's flowery namesake, the color of paleness, of naïveness, of innocence. Violet. A name that rolls off my tongue just as easily as my own name, a word I have been with childhood.
"COME ON GUYS, YOU CAN DO BETTER THAN THAT!" The coaches voice boomed over the field as we ran our fifth lap around the track. I was huffing and puffing, feet slapping across the pavement in an uneven rhythm, but I couldn't stop, not when the coach was so harsh on anyone who gave up. I'd rather come in last than give up.
My dad had the trophy placed just so in our living room. Every afternoon at 1:37 precisely, the sun shines through the window and reflects off the surface of his high school baseball trophy, emphasizing it more than even the awkward positioning could. He said that it's his most prized possession, and if he doesn't show it off, damn it, what else is he to do with it?
writing since 2011 · 4 entries · 3 days shown up
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