Black

Black I lay in my bed, alone with my thoughts, looking around, But all I see is black. Black is what remains of a disregarded rainbow, Colors that used to spew from my mouth as happy words Are now the slow drip of a faucet, thick black sludge drips down my chin. I think about jazz hands that have now turned trembling digits, Sweaty palms, purple nail beds, frozen fingertips. I look at my eyes. Once glistering with shades of bright green and deep browns. Twinkling with brightness, beauty, and life. I look at my eyes again. Ringed with purple, irises a murky, foul swamp Dull, emotionless, the eyes of a walking corpse. I look at my hair. It fell down my back in perfect golden ringlets As bright as the sun As soft as dandelions on a warm spring day. I gaze once more. Greasy locks hang above my shoulders, Knotted from the countless times I run my fingers through my hair. I listen to my voice. Once bell like, sounding as smooth as honey, Dripping with confidence. I speak to myself one more time. My voice left hoarse from sleepless nights, Screaming, Crying, Giving up. The bell is no longer in use, replaced by boards that Squeak and creak every time I speak. My voice cracks, shaking with fear, eventually to be silenced by The air that is not entering my lungs. I lay back down and look up again, Attempting to get a glimpse of some sort of color spectrum, But all I see is black.