I resisted the urge to try on a piece of coloured clothing. I have done that for weeks now, ducking into the horrible flourescent glare of the changerooms with my bundle of green or red or blue. You said I might look good in blue. I translated this to mean you would find me more attractive in blue. To tell you the truth I look hideous in colour. It looks like I am a clown. Colour does not suit me. I am better in black. Still I glance at the colourful dresses. She looked so nice in deep green. I imagine you like her because of it.
I walk past the clothing and try nothing on. Last time, and the time before, I sat on the floor of the change-room with a green shirt, a blue dress, a red cardigan and I cried. The floor was ripe with the stale socks of a thousand shoppers.
I will not try things on because of you or her. I no longer want you to find me attractive. I will slice off my left breast to draw back a bow. I will shave my head. I will resist the urge to wear makeup. I cannot compete for pretty. All I can hope for is my own kind of fractured beauty. You do not desire me, nor should you, and now, because of this, I will make it impossible for anyone to desire me at all.