What a fine day to wake up grey. The color leached from me while I was asleep. I am the uncolored thing moving about the house today.
I want to see red. The only color left is underneath and sometimes I need to see it. I have an itch where the portal lies and I drink coffee and fantasize about opening it with a knife.
I’m sick of the masquerade that makes me invent little accidents to justify the damage to my exterior. Everyone knows I have to open up and let the color out every now and then. And despite the subtle brutality of this therapy, isn’t it preferable to the alternative?
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They never see it do they?
Within lies the pallette, with razors we paint
In ribbons of crimson applied over grey…
I’ve never understood their objections. It’s not their flesh. It’s not a suicide attempt, in fact it seems to stave them off. I even derive pleasure from it. How do they even have the right to threaten me with hospitalization for doing something I enjoy?