the world is full of colors, dark and bright and pale and tumbling, declaring their dominance over the absences of what they pride themselves in being. the horizon is painted in shades of an ache that spread over my chest, pressing my back farther into the porcelain of the tub until it becomes numb and I can't tell where one ends and another begins, soaking my skin in lukewarm discomfort.
everything seems so hopeless. the task of being happy, of being good natured and optimistic seems so taxing, it's a wonder anyone is content with life at all. i do not expect myself to be happy, not with these circumstances. maybe I should shove it into a box and keep it in my chest, this happiness, and mark it with the words 'fragile' in rugged black marker- protect it, use my organs as padding to make sure no one jostles its contents.
my colors become muddy when my state of mind does, here where it's dark and enclosed and it feels like you're not allowed to breathe, each breath taken in secret with struggle as a direct violation of the rules put in place by forces unknown. there's so much inside me, here where the light doesn't touch.
so why do I feel so empty?
everyone else seems so warm, touching and laughing and speaking, both with words and without. why does it feel like I've never been a part of that? somebody pull me from this bathtub, from the pressure the colors place on my pale chest, from the streaked window that's filthy with forgotten dirt and stains that seem to grow with each passing minute.
I'm scared.
I'm alone.
I'm clawing at my empty chest, at the wooden crate marked "fragile", wishing it could be marked "important" instead. when will someone understand the fragile thoughts of a too sad girl lost in the colors of this world? it's seems unclear to me. perhaps it will be never. how convenient that would be.
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