Sunset
The first time I see the sky, It’s a warm blossom of colors. Orange, red, yellow, pink. Names that meant nothing before. The sun is dancing, Ever so slowly, Back to the dark place it despises. But it will always rise, And dance again. I recall this to a stranger. She murmurs condolences, And I don’t understand. “Were you really living?” She asks me, And I, confused, reply, “What’s living?” She wraps kind arms around me, Squeezing me tight. “I’m living,” She says. “And you’re living.” Living - warmth The next time I see the sky, I am lying on cold kitchen tiles. It swirls with inky blues and blacks, And I can feel it Drip, dripping on my skin. It’s cold, distantly cold, And I can’t help but feel That the cold tiles below me Hurt more than the burning pain on my weak body. “Pain is only proof that you’re alive.” The ink-spiller echoes in my head. My bloodstained cheeks, And the sky on my body Are proof that I am...