Allergy to Yellow

I am allergic to yellow.

They used to tease with sunflower seeds this most absurd ailment.

I remember his face, and the vermillion flush that found its way,

crawling up from under my clothing.

His brown eyes that dived beneath my cinnabar skin, and off-white button ups,

and short Barbie pink and auburn skirts,

and shouting.

First starts the sneezing.

Then the watering of the eyes.

The panic as my breath starts to catch, my throat closing.

So I run.

Past the yellow buses, past the wild daisies, into the ultraviolet sky.

The saffron suffused grass and periwinkle pastures,

and the shouting of my name tells me I didn’t run quick enough.

My hand is white. I’m hallucinating. My fingernails bite the lying flesh.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he says.

I turn to see the wheaty curls of yellow cresting like sea foam on his face.

“I’m allergic to yellow,” I say.

“I’m blonde,” he says.

“You’re white,” I say.

“You’re not,” he says.

I sneeze, his hair blowing in the breeze.

I take his hand and stand.