YRG

Yellow
          Lemon peels will rot your teeth out, enamel wearing away.  Acrid smile, burning gums-the yellow breath swirls out of your mouth and colors the room.  Lamplight too yellow, turning white walls to gold and everyone is made out of money.  Millionaires with gold-capped teeth, hair the color of wheat .  They smell of wheat, look as if they've been mummified.  Peeling a banana with gold capped teeth, biting harder than is necessary, mushy flesh explodes.  Hay bales drop stray bits of straw around the room.  Hay bales swinging from tan ropes attached to the ceiling.  I am sitting on the hay bale, wearing a smiley-face t-shirt and it's sticking out its tongue at you.  Wal-mart consciousness.  Price slashing with a smile.  Sponging paint on the wall-fresh paint from metal cans-the room smells like chemicals, and we are filled with all kinds of poisons.

Red
      A devilish grin, a tip of the cap.  They say he lurks in the shadows, but he knows better than that.  Clothed in maroon sweatshirt, drinking from a solo cup, he hits up underage girls at high school parties, and seeks out the worst in them.  A Valentine's Day heart on a letter designed for you to give to your mother.  That's his sincerity.  Her crimson-painted fingernails tapping on the table, bored, worried about which colleges she's going to apply to.  A glass of wine-the glass bought from a dollar store-held in the other hand, she sips hesitantly, drinking to be polite.  Glowing-red sweatshirt, arguably a kind of hot pink, she wonders if it would be strange to pull the hood over her head.  He grabs the hood and teasingly pulls it over her head quickly, confusing at first, then she finds it funny.  Laughs a red tongue bouncing up and down, pink gums-red because she doesn't floss enough.  Bites her red lips nervously.  His will be biting harder.

Grey
       Thick clouds blocking out the sun.  Squeezing sand between toes.  This New England day at the beach.  Look the sand is polluted with driftwood and bottles.  Tiny crabs scuttle around aimlessly, maybe looking for food, maybe wondering why they have to live here, why they have to live now.  Looking for some sort of antidote, five dollar grey sweatshirt feels like dry, bare flesh in the cold wind, cutting through all layers, chilling bone.  Underneath, the flesh looks rancid, has not seen the sun in months, at least not for more than a day at a time.  Human bodies don't stay fresh that long under cloud cover.  Plane flying overhead, a grey dot in an already-colorless sky.  Look inward, away from sea, see skyscrapers, a different kind of colorless, windows, giant mirrors, reflecting what's outside. A mechanical grey.  It's choking the city to death.  It's already killed the beach.