Black is not a color Black is the awry trajectory to home every night, the hues of cut-throat emotions at 3 a.m. No, not the little dress you wore at the 18th birthday party Black is tearing down the walls howling and crying afterward because the bullies are your friends. Black is the corners you sit and slit you bleed from everywhere and the smell of a sweet release. Black is the reverberating voice of a bygone lover that don't let you sleep. Of days you live in a crowd and yet feel so hauntingly alone Black is not a color Black is the absence of any color.
the rantings of solitude