I used to be made out of colour, iridescent as one might say.
Now I've become grey.
Afraid and shivering.
I used to see yellow and think about happiness. Because that's all we ever think of yellow.
Now I see that it's screaming for someone to please finally like it.
I used to see red and think of love and romance.
Now it's the warmth I feel when I think of sweet nothingness.
I used to see black and think of death.
I still do.
Now less afraid and shivering.
There is a fascination inside me crawling out in charcoalblack.
And it wonders if I can ever be strong enough.
If I can ever be brave and willing enough to give up.
But that's not what you want to hear. You want to hear how I'm fighting. How I'm stronger than my mental illness.
But I'm not.
This mental illness has become who I am.
And how in the world can somenone be stronger than themselves.