fear of having favorites

i started writing this a few months ago. been sitting on it for a while. it was supposed to be like my first jump into personal essays. never went anywhere with it. kinda stayed in this spot for a while. feel like posting it here, so i will, in its unfinished state lol.

17 years and i didn't consider a favorite color. inklings of satisfaction experiencing the color red in cinderella (1950) didn't became less of a nightmare until hesitant self-actualization. to make the decision felt like flaying my skin open, an awkward penguin trying to fly by making makeshift wings, and studying the color of the muscle underneath. i never wanted to open the vein. i never wanted to shine a light through my ear and see it glow. i wanted to mirror the color of shit after a birthday party's cake cut. the color of cartoon puke i knew bubbled in my stomach and wanted to escape like a bad lie. i sat with my head smashed between my knees until my skull wanted to pop, until the blanket over my eyes shined at the wake of the sun when i threw my head up, my eyes screwed tight. it was like some act of the divine to admit that i could like anything.

can i not drop from my ceiling looking down beneath my hair, and fall head first? splat across the carpet, red paint on every surface, and find myself scrubbing the color from the curls of my floor into a diluted image of what was there? in the act of my brain matter do i not transform into the cartoon pinks? or does it sit in and soak and shine in the light of my bedroom fixture like rubies i have to shatter screaming until it's a fine dust?