Colors of the Rainbow

The color you find on dead roses.

You don't feel like sharing what you own. Past pains, heavy weight on your shoulders and the amount of anger you hold inside yourself. It's all a risk to the next person you want to love, the next person you want to show love to, the next person you want to care about.

Those dead roses sitting on the table in the dining room are slowly rotting but you're too lazy to replace them with new ones. You have to be honest with yourself, are you really too lazy? Or are you so attached to them that you refuse to throw them away and find fresh new ones? You don't know, and you don't want to answer the question either.

It's dark, very dark in this room you sit on the floor in. The hard tile floor leaves your legs numb, your head feeling light, your arms tired from resting on the cold floor. Your thoughts skip through your mind as if they didn't care that you were in pain, that you saw and heard things you should've have heard, that you continuously wanted to end the life you called hopeless and meaningless, otherwise your own. It wasn't easy at all, to go through what you did. Not at all. But that's okay because life does get better right?

When you were going to answer that simple question to yourself, the door knocked and you stood up warily to open it. On that porch was two girls and an older woman, seemingly from Girl Scouts. They were selling cookies, and as much as you wanted one, you kindly refused. You had lost your appetite for food, and you refused to at anything that would remotely make you unhealthy because of those thoughts constantly racing through your mind every minute of the day. Every second, every hour, every week, every year, you can feel yourself growing worse. The amount of guilt you hold, and the amount of shame you've always had in the pit of your empty stomach, the amount of fear that your heart keeps closely to it.

It all seems to fall apart at that moment. Suddenly, you want to answer that previous question with, "No, life never gets better". It's as if you refuse it to get better as if you were purposely making yourself miserable for everything you always blamed yourself for. The empty feeling in your sore muscles from crying for so long, the dry eyes that held all of your bottled tears. All of it made you feel as if it really wasn't worth trying to live your life.

And at the moment you were ready to give up, the phone rang. You picked it up to find that an old friend had called.

"How have you been?"

That soft voice made the roses on the table of the dining room rise to life, and you smiled.