in the beginning, I thought it was black,
a mournful color for the deep loss of self
that I had during that floundering year.
but the more time I spent in the spaces
of those who could no longer see light
somehow I found a aversion
to the shade, as if admitting the dark
and giving it ink would strike us.
sometimes they showed it as lavender,
a nostalgic wash over an eroded reality.
red was depth, just a single drop of blood
struck with a blade of ice-pale silver
and blue was how they spoke of recovery,
a clinical nightmare of tile and gowns.
their colors were beautiful, even I can admit
that I wanted to live in their world.
but we were, I know now, all the same
in our canvas of despair and survivial-
and can we blame those who desire to be
truly romantic in their sorrow?
right now, I can't pretend that I know
but I can, at least, attempt to ensure
that every single color is as honest
as I am capable of being
and I do not think it is a coincidence
that often, I find myself reaching for black.
A/N: Sorry for being MIA for a while! I just got back from vacation last week.