Colours of My Soul
The white of the walls peel off.
The carpet of the floor collects dust.
The thump of my heart fades away.
I sometimes find myself wondering the reality of my situation.
I am two sides of the same coin.
I am the same ruin I outrun.
I am the same joy I attract.
I am the same thrill I consume.
I sit and I write.
I sit and I eat.
I sit and I write.
Trying to articulate the colours of my soul when all I hear are the greys of its echo.
I try to present myself as easy, though the interior designs are a mesh of angst, moon silver and the drip of crimson.
I can smell the copper of my blood.
I can hear the silence of my soul.
I can taste the anguish of my tears.
I am a song of calamity.
The chorus of the mirror.
The melody of my grief.
The bass of my heartbeat.
The lyrics of a collapse, too crumbled to recognise.
The production of a fantasy, eternalised by delusion.
The symphony of a destruction, tragedized by birth.
I am a song you play on repeat,
Until the tune twists and strips me of my armour.
And all that is left is the mesh of angst, the silver of the moon and the drip of crimson.
All that is left is the little girl in me who once wished to radiate the ricochet of the sun, but I stand at 17, radiating the ricochet of my own rotting void.
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