It is the color of the night sky. The color of your waiter's tray. And when you see him, it's the color of his hair. When he holds out a ring, it's the color of a diamond. When your parents refuse to consent, it's the color of his skin. On the wedding day, it's the color of his suit. At the new house, it's the shining ebony of a piano. At the doctor's, it's the color of an ultrasound photo. A year later, it's the color of a tiny casket. On that day, it's the color of the dress you wear. On a Sunday years later, it's the color of his shoes. When the first noise is heard, it's the color of a gun in a place of sanctuary. Now it's the color of a bullet embedded in his body. It's the color of the wheels of an ambulance trying to save him. And then it's the color of ink on a death certificate. On a day soon after, it's the color of the dress you had hoped to never wear again. It is the color of the road leading to home. It's the color of depression, of sleepless nights spent alone. It's the handle of a knife that gives sweet release and oblivion. And now, at long last, it is the color of another grave, this time your own.
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Poetry Collection
PoetryTrigger Warning: May include mentions/descriptions self harm, violence, and suicide. Read at your own risk. Please remember reading this that these are generally an emotional vent and that there is always light at the end of the tunnel, even if you...
