colour

Everyone wants golden stars. Remember those? The little stickers that teachers used to give out in class in primary school? When you were good, when you were special, when you accomplished something- you got a golden star. Oh how I remember cherishing those golden stars. I’d be so happy, I’d bring them home, show them to my family and friends, I’d stick them on my walls, books, pencil case, mirror, basically anything. I felt good. I felt good getting a golden star because it made me feel I deserved it. It made me feel golden- like a golden girl with a golden star.

Now that we’re older, the little stickers aren’t so attractive anymore. But we still get our golden stars in other forms. Family, friends, good grades or sports achievements. We get gold stars for being the best.

My gold star was him.

He was the shiniest one. The biggest, brightest most dazzling one.

I had had other stars before him, but all of them were made from paper, weak material, easily broken and with sticker backings that for some reason just didn’t stick. They peeled off easily.

But he, he told me he wasn’t like the other stars, he told me he wasn’t a sticker. He told me he was solid gold. Hard, sturdy, 100% real solid gold.

And so, I got him for myself.

I felt like I deserved it, I felt like I deserved this golden star, that I was worth every bit of gold that he had to give me. Every single ounce of it.

Then things started to get bad. And I mean really bad. There was a really bad storm, and I hate thunder and lightning and I protested and screamed as much as I could, but the storm came anyways. Wind, rain, relentlessness waves, everything. Most of it was the rain. It drenched us- me and my golden star. It made us feel terrible, hopeless, desolate. It soaked us to the bone, wore us down- made us brittle and fragile. But to me, I was still glad that I had my golden star. For 18 months I sheltered him the best I could, tried to take as many of the blows that came down on us as I could. I wanted to keep him safe, happy. I wanted to keep him golden.

But then the storm started to show me something.

With the rain pelting down on us, I started to notice something. My golden star started flaking, peeling- it was starting to lose its shine. At first I ignored it, I thought that maybe the storm was casting such a dark light that I couldn’t see it properly, that he just appeared twisted and strange under the circumstances we were in.

But then I stopped lying to myself, and I realised

His paint was peeling off

He wasn’t a golden star

He was a piece of metal.

A hard, cold, emotionless piece of metal, covered with a thin layer of gold paint.

A thin layer of gold paint.

That’s all it was this whole time, just a thin layer of gold paint.

He wasn’t shiny anymore, he wasn’t bright. And he definitely was not gold.

The more paint I peeled off, the more I saw, and the more I saw it wasn’t gold, it was just more hard metal. He was gold on the outside, and he fooled me. Golden on the surface, but on the inside, hard and cold, spiteful and selfish, prideful, hurtful, sharp-tongued, mean, destructive and detached.

He was cold. And I had never felt so destroyed in my life.

The storm had gone and the light had come out, but it just made everything so much clearer, and the worst part is that I didn’t know what to do. I had loved, cherished, protected, and fought for this star, and to be honest, I didn’t want to give it up, even if it wasn’t golden anymore.

But do you know what happens to metal when it gets wet?

It’s not like paper, oh no, paper gets soggy yes, but it gets soggy and then it just breaks apart and dissolves into nothingness- it disappears. But metal isn’t like that, it’s worse than paper.

Metal rusts. It turns an ugly colour, and touching it tears your skin. You can’t hold it anymore, you can’t keep it anymore, you can’t love it anymore. It becomes a chunk that no matter how much paint you try to cover it with, it just won’t hide the fact that you know it’s not gold.

I had had other stars before him. All of them were made from paper. Weak material. Easily broken. With stickers that just didn’t stick. But they peeled off easily.

Metal doesn’t go away that easily. It’s heavy, difficult to throw away. It’s large, like how large a part of my life he was, difficult to get off your mind. Once you’ve had it around for so long, it is so hard to push aside. It leaves marks on everything you have, it leaves bruises on everything it’s touched and it leaves scars on every memory you’d made

and in the end

all i’m left with is the blood taste of rust which i just can’t get out of my mouth