Writing

The Colors

It was a nauseating freedom,

the sense of finally getting the hang of it.

It took years to build a home where nobody lived.

It was bending further and further everyday, until one day you are surprised you got so far and it didn’t even hurt.

The kindest of Septembers,

passed you by.

I took over the world

but I fell like dusk. 

Quietly,

until all the colors were gone. 

I think I was on time to some part of my life I’d never thought I would make it to.

and I wasn’t bitter.

I was just free.

A morbid delight, 

of hoping you could just be. 

And that is what time does to you.

It breaks you out of proportion and you learn to appreciate the bits that still look like you.

and the steel you got for the worth of your skin.

You were the last thing I remember about being human.

The last thing I wanted enough to deserve it

but it was time to forgive yourself for existing.

It was time.

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