Grey, Like stone. Navy, All alone.

Torn, Fabric age. Scorn, Listless sage.

Pale, Like chalk. Emblematic, Making people talk.

…

Love You

…

🖤

Pink and green Opposites always attract Complimentary That’s what they say Right?

So why when I see a couple One wearing pink The other one green Why do they always clash?

There was once a upon a time Where they thought they could make it work But now look at them!

They argue over little things They sleep in separate beds And they don’t even say “I love you” anymore

Opposites attract That’s what they always say But when I look at them I feel as if that’s the biggest lie that’s ever been said

• • • Idkk 😭 I just wanted to post something today and this is all I’ve got 🤷‍♀️

Everything has a color.

Everything has a color And a weight And a feeling.

Of course, those are just the words I use. Most of the time, The colors aren’t actually colors. The weights aren’t actually weights. The feelings aren’t actually feelings. But that’s the way I make sense of it, The way I create words when there are none.

Songs are blue and black and pink, Swirls merging and dividing. A good day makes me weightless, Clouds supporting my weight. Anxiety pulls me in different directions, Hooks under my skin.

Nothing makes sense. There are too many things, Too many feelings, Too many experiences To possibly describe them. Everything mixes and merges, Blurring into new ideas. My world is an abstract collection of memories, So I have to have an abstract way of understanding.

Emotions have physical feelings. Experiences have weights. Ideas and things have colors.

Everything has a color.

Blue, my favorite color Same as my sister and my eyes

It reminds me of The oceans and of the Sky and of the Solar System

Of lakes, and of a deep mystery, Of rivers, and of calmness

Blueberries, My favorite fruit, And bluebirds

Heavy rain, deep Puddles, and sapphires

It reminds me of tears, Sadness, laziness, comfort, Exhaustion, and giving up

It reminds me how I can’t feel anger

Any strong frustration I have Melts into sadness and tears and Tiredness and sometimes numbness

A common favorite color that’s found Everywhere and could mean anything

I weave a shroud of night, a cloak of deepest black, It wraps around my thoughts, a sorrow turning back On memories that linger, whispers of a past, A love that burned to embers, a dream that could not last.

The dark and well that is my heart spills forth its inky tide, Black mascara stains my cheeks where laughter did reside. The sun, a distant memory, veiled by a stormy sky, No warmth can pierce the darkness, no answer to my cry.

Ebony crows with mournful voices circle overhead, Their wings beat out a haunting dirge, a symphony of dread. The wind, a mournful banshee, through barren branches sighs, Wailing for all that’s broken, a lament for our demise.

Black roses, thorns like daggers, pierce a bleeding soul, Their velvet petals whisper of a love that lost control. The path ahead is shrouded, a labyrinthine maze, Lost in the endless darkness, through lonely, hollow days.

But in the inky blackness, a flicker I behold, Perhaps within the shadows, there’s a story yet untold. For even blackest night must yield to dawn’s first light, And though the scars may linger, a new day may ignite.

A dark void swimming between the murky silence of death, worn black like the eye sockets of a skull. Mysterious, holding secrets no one dare tell. Even after death, they stay trapped behind sewn lips and sharpened teeth.

Something so far out of reach, yet so close to you. Something you run to catch, yet is always chasing you. The same thing that is nothing but everything at the same time. Confusing yet clear. Quiet, yet it yells, calling out to you from afar- or perhaps, just behind your back.

“What am I?” You hear from the pitch black darkness. It roars in anger when you don’t respond to it’s calls. Softly, your footstep lands on the chilled, grey stone floor as you take your first step down a very dark path, your fate uncertain.

“What am I?” Suddenly you plunge into a pit of darkness as the voice hisses at you again, rocketing pains into your head like lightening strikes on cracked earth.

“Death,” you whisper, a million voices echo repeats in the chamber you stand in. “You’re death and I’m human. Infected with a disease I cannot outrun and a burden I cannot carry.”

“How unfortunate,” the voice cackles, it’s mocking laughs fill the chamber as you plunge under yet another dark shadow of grief, fear and depression.

black as the midnight sky shaded with purple and blue

colors of the past i lived lying to me, lying to you

horrendous pictures from a life i’ve long since left behind

and yet you still ask me darling, would you be mine?

I’m wearing grey And like storm clouds I’m murky Unclear and not fully explained I am a gamut of a shade

The sun you cannot see A path covered in piles of dead leaves

Indifference with lack of modesty Not attracting too much attention Never approaching each thing with a great sense of apprehension

The fleas that still jump the same height as the jar The way Hubble’s law explains the absence of stars Missing pieces to my lives puzzle

Black and white as extremes Lonely people idiosyncratically perceive And I run with the trees Contradicting what I’ve been lead to believe

Acrylic paint stains on a navy background. Watercolours don't. Blood doesn't either. Don't ask me how I know this, because I'm not going to answer.

I will say that I always wear navy jumpers, even in the summertime.

Muddy grass stains on white shorts. I started bleeding monthly and wore black. I stopped wearing shorts when I ran out of room, and when my thighs grew tired of the weight, my calves learnt to ache just the same. I hardly leave the house anymore, so it's clear we've given up on climbing trees.

When I say I switched razor blades for palette knives, it sounds romantic. That's not what this is, because the truth is it's never been one or the other. Slice, grin, roll down your sleeve, impasto on top like the double decker bus you tried to throw yourself in front of: Cleaning palette knives on my sweater.

Acrylic paint stains on a navy background. Joggers with paint marks streaked across the knees. They are the only clothes that hide my hips enough to keep me sane when my body starts feeling like a crime again.

There are days when I feel like a serial killer, when I see my reflection in the school bus window, wishing to smash the glass and with the shards, slit the throats of everyone pretty.

And then my own, because why live in a world without beauty?

I think it's clear to say that I have always been the problem.

So why do you care how I choose to use my stationery?

I feel green, but what might that mean?

Might it mean I’m full of life from my head to my feet. Am I the start to growth into a new beginning, do I give life to everything around me?

If so, why, why do people think my color is to express disgust when I’m far from such atrocious word.

My color is the most lively thing out there, my color is life.