when colour leaves

the walls are yellow.

loud. that's an accurate word for the colour.

She's palm to palm with the wall
and it's painted fingernails-
(hers are mahogany raw)
she's relishing the coolness of it-
it warms the searing heat, the heat
soaring through her veins like a cheap firework.

the walls are grey now. Everything is.

everything's slate.
she's surrounded by a pink candy-cane utopia but
everything's full of static and rubs against her skin like a metal sponge. it's
not so easy for her to simply put up an umbrella-
she wants a yellow one, painted with sunshine hues and mustard to scare the grey away. 
most days are like a pool full of mist;
she can't swim so she just sits at the side of the water and 
fidgets closer and closer to the edge.

The grey is the enemy-

black and red are sorely missed in this colourless world.
black is a friend, the void to hide in, with two yellow pupils.
red might be evil- it infects the whites of her eyes- but it is also the colour of roses. 

but grey is ever present and drones. The

droning makes her want to rip her brain right out.

brains are grey
. sometimes

she feels like hers must be the only one in that colour.
everyone else's must be bursting at the seams with a rainbow;
held tight with a golden thread.
Hers is more like a discarded dishcloth, used over and over,
and the thing holding it together has red eyes and a flickering tongue.

Bones are white
But at times such as these without colour, she
confesses they feel closer to grey, 
as if the frame of her soul is already ashes,
deep in the earth. 

but, when all is lost-

as the pressure of the deep pops her heart
like a cardiac balloon
as it scrambles, like a frightened rabbit,
to escape the drizzle pounding bottles of emotion washed up-shore-

the sunshine girls will be there.

they're better than the dijon walls
-the sunshine girls are warm, have warm hands and hearts=-
they paint a beautiful portrait on the grey brain, make it pretty. make it
What was once just empty is now just an empty canvas. 

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