when I first met you,
you were a bright yellow.
it streaked your cheeks
and shone from your face;
you were
happy,
undoubtedly.
two months and eighteen days later,
you were red.
the kind of red that hurt,
blistering and intense;
you were
angry,
simply put.
a year after I first met you,
you were a dark blue.
the colour of the sea during a storm,
the kind of blue that made you cry;
you were
sad,
undoubtedly.
eight months later,
you were black.
and I watched as it consumed you,
as it turned you into a hollow void of nothingness;
you were
depressed,
simply put.
on the day that you died,
there was no colour,
only the pale shade of your skin
penetrated by the bullet
from the gun that you used
to take your own life
in front of my very eyes.
and that was when I realised,
you were not colour at all.
you were a spectrum,
but the world would never come to comprehend
the light that burned inside of you;
and so when it burned out,
you burned with it.
