The last scrap of—everything, really. Why do I do this? Why do I keep doing this to myself?
I should know better. Shouldn’t I? That words have power and that power hurts?
It always does, because power is strength that is not always wielded by the strong.
And I have never been very strong.
But I can’t help it. I can’t give in to my weakness. That would mean admitting weakness. Acknowledging that I’m worthless. Proving that they were right about me, because I have nothing. I am nothing.
Just fizzle out and die.
Smother my spark.
Pretend that I can’t hear those voices screaming in my head. In my heart. Clamoring in my soul. Wailing and howling every odd hour in the night.
Can’t sleep. Can’t eat. Can’t think.
How did I get this gift? What have I done? Who have I offended? How can I give this curse back?
I don’t want this.
The madness, for there is no method.
No mind thinks alike, great or not. I am so far removed from greatness that perhaps, the very idea is laughable.
I can say that I have tried and nothing more. ForI have always tried.
Right up to this very moment, because now—now I don’t know what to do anymore—and now, it is finally too late.
They warned me. Told me that anyone who didn’t properly use their gift would suffer in the end.
This must be the end, for I am suffering. It shouldn’t hurt this much. All this untapped, wasted potential.
It really shouldn’t.
But it’s late and dark and it will swallow me whole, for I no longer have the will to glow.
I can’t see colors anymore.
It was so gradual, there was really no way to tell when it first started. I simply thought my clothes were grey.
More so than when I bought them, but it couldn’t have been anything else.
Blind. So blind.
I thought if I ignored it—everything would be alright. It would go away.
But it got so much worse.
First the pinks, then the blues—and that was so strange—then the greens. No logic to them. I didn’t understand.
I thought that I could stop it.
I thought the colors would come back.
But they don’t.
They leave, like fragments of life, breaking off and floating away. It hurts and it cracks through every barrier I dare to build.
It doesn’t stop.
Piece after piece. Layer by layer. One color at a time.
They say the color of hope is white. Because that is the color of light.
Light is every color meshed together, I would think, because no one color stands out.
Except that I stand here, an empty shell—a pathetic conduit for creativity and yet—I see white.
Right before me.
So bright. So pure. So—hopeful.
And somehow, I know, that I am going to die.
One does not live after their colors fade. Though perhaps living without color is death itself.
I would not know. I do not wish to know.
Still, I feel some regret.
Honestly enough, simple regrets.
That I did not jump when prompted. That I didn’t laugh when I could. That I didn’t speak when my lipsticks changed color.
I didn’t know what to do. I only knew, that nothing would be the same.
The sirens outside my window grow louder with each passing minute. I would answer the door, but my legs won’t move anymore. It’s happening so quickly.
I did not think they would come, but they have and I am—afraid.
It is not long now, for this very minute, I can feel the life spilling out of my hands and onto this page.
I hope they burn it.
Respectfully, I do.
No one wants to read this. No one should have to read this. To know this kind of pain.
To die in such a painful and obvious way. For they will all know—and they will judge me for it—even as I am using it this very minute.
They will know I didn’t use it enough and so I will lose.
For they were right all along.
If I had used this gift more, perhaps, I might’ve lived.