Colors of madness

This is what I will call Colors of madness, Red, Purple, Green,Yellowish brown… I get called mad a lot, I mean in a good way. Wait, Let me paint you a picture of my story. I am a highly creative sophisticated photographer, termed “mad” in this modern era. I only work for the bourgeoisie. The ones I feel are worth my creativity. Yes! I select my clients. No one dares talk back at me, I mean at work. My shoulder pad is more than that of a bishop's wife trying to show the women leader who is in charge. But once I get home, I become a timid, shivering leaf. The fear of my husband is the beginning of my sorrow. In the studio, I am the one in control. I command the elite. I tell them, “Tilt your head, look into the lens, show me your soul,” and they obey. I spend my days capturing their glory in high resolution, saturating their lives with beauty. But to the man I go home to, I am just another tool to glorify his ego, a prized trophy he displays to the world to prove his success, only to treat me like a common utensil in the kitchen once the guests are gone. To him, I am not a "creative genius"; I am a baby-making machine. My value is measured by the heirs I can produce and the silence I can maintain. Behind the lens, I see everything. But when the flash fades, I am just another object in his house, waiting for the next blow in the dark, leaving me with different colors, red, purple, green, yellowish brown and patched.