The day your world bled there was no blood. There were no tears. The clouds gorged themselves on sky but remained white and empty. (There was no rain. There never was any rain.) The earth you lived on faded to the cold grey of old black and white photographs but nobody screamed. Was your voice caged by self-loathing, or pity? It wasn’t ignorance. I still remember the day you said you missed the color red. Where was the violence? Did you bury it with your fear or your innocence? Because there’s nothing as unpoetic as an open wound. It seems that’s how you’re heading to live your whole **** life; open and weeping and dying without color.  (And I?  I saw a ray of hope and decided to give up on you after all.)