Black
Today might not be the day. Maybe even tomorrow isn’t. But a day will come when the sun will set on your temporary joy. You’ll be wasted. There is no hope. There’s no light emanating from the little space below the cracked wooden door that shuts you off from the brighter shade of everything in this world. You’re ineligible for anything good. Your platter does not match the ones accepted in the society. You wont be served leftovers. You’ll fight among others like you to gain control of the fanciest trashcan. The one with the maximum amount of leftover food. So that you can take a day off when others of your lot fight it out once again. Your situation will change your character. You will no longer share. You will no longer wish luck for anyone. You will no longer be noticed. You will no longer be called. Not when you’re sick. Not when you’re dead. Your bones will be corrupted.. right down to the marrow. You’ll feel your head, for once. Fucked too long. With used grease and cheap lubricants. You will watch words like friendship and care tear by the seam and not shed a tear. Your aims lie in dreamless sleep. Your brain echoes of chemical brothers. Your thoughts are bashed back at your own mind with tons of illusion. You live in constant denial of the true.
And you remember the day you died. People consoled you. Their words of “Its just a phase, you’ll get over it” scar your inner skull. Like needles screeching metal.
She left you standing. She killed you. You died. But the bullet missed your heart. She should have been more careful. For the heart is capable of unimaginable horrors beyond your wills, your perceptions, your sight, your love. Her only mistake.
