colOURless woman

Sometimes the sky is gray,
at these time I like to walk outside
and use my umbrella made of letters,
the ones I never sent.
Sometimes the sky is gray,
at these times I like to cuddle into myself,
cover myself with clothes to hide them.
hide the anxious thoughts swarming toward my veins,
the ones no one can see.
Sometimes my hands are cold,
not because it's winter or freezing in this vacant
home of my mind,
just because I can react their hands.
They seem to thousands of feet above,
but I can't let go of the letters and blankets.
I'm weighed down on the soil,
waiting.
Sometimes my hands are cold,
I open closets to find gloves,
open up boxes,
open up old wounds.
As I open up another letter of regret,
I find my gloves and cover,
more gray.