5-year-old Freya was hot pink.
Epitome of 2000’s ‘it girl’. She was bomb. At times I wish I could be her again. She walked with conviction; hips swaying side to side. She always wore tight t-shirts with bling-ed up words like “cutie”, always a little tummy peeking through between the bottom of her top and the start of her low-rise skirt.
7-year-old Freya
turned blue because her friends were blue. She forgot all about pink Freya. She
wore denim, oversized shirts and hated skirts.
14-year-old Freya decided she wanted to be pink again. She missed 5-year-old Freya too much. She bought pink stationery, spoke with a high voice and made small talk, always sporting a dreamy smile.
18-year-old Freya doesn’t know what colour she is anymore. She has stopped caring what colour she wants to be. She spends her days floating on clouds in an endless blue sky. And surrounds herself with all things pretty and pink. And turns into bright yellow suds when sunlight graces her skin.
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