She wore it to his funeral,

But it’s also the aura of her soul.

It’s murder in cold blood; she stabbed him 27 times.

            It’s the colour of hearts breaking apart,

The colour of death and imperfection.

Misery, hate, and torment.

            She says it’s the colour of silence…

If silence could be seen, that is.

            It’s the still of the nighttime,

The shadow creatures lurking in the darkness outside her window.

            It’s her loneliness;

Agony and regret.

            It’s the colour of the pistol she held to her temple.

It’s the residue from the bullet that went through her skull.

            It’s suicide and the long ride to hell.



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