She is a chameleon.
She is emerald in the forest, cyan on ocean beds, marigold in fields of sunflowers. She is Hazel in front of mirrors, Raven to her readers, Henna to her followers. She breathes in violet clouds and exhales indigo daydreams, drinks in azure mists and speaks spun scarlet, but never were the colours that burst forth from within her in a euphoric stream of mania ever her own. It is white light shattering into seven shards showering upon her soul.
She is a chameleon, but she does not tell anyone.