Not seen, but felt.

Bursting and bubbling, carving glaciers between crevices. Lingering warm on rims of mascara drenched lashes. A sorrow; a sadness, spiked with hopeless anxiety that paints the pages of my ambition a wholesome white. A fake innocence made pure. To observe and absorb reminiscent golden ages, embalmed in fantastical dreams, my discolored tears reveal hope. 50% genetics and 50% society, squeezed out into burning, pitiful mopes. Contorting and crushing my whole entity into small little colourless drops.

My tears are the warmest of blues, and the brightest of blacks. Tears that not only pierce the perception of living light, but lie in the outskirts of humanity’s self-taught spectrum. Representing the bliss of originality deduced from misunderstanding. Having the hue of when I first learned fear, a crackling sizzle shattering a perfect bubble. Ash stained, they bleed poppies and dandelions in spring. Sprouting concaved crocuses in the snow. To bend the colour of movement, paints being swept into each other’s embrace, they explore and reassemble on my face.

My tears are me, but I am not them. They are but a washed-out, poorly executed version of my romanticised self. Little personalised sacks of pity-party essentials. Bulging, they unwillingly spill and fill the gaze of strangers. Creating murky pools of empathy that numb. Monochromatic in mood, but complementary in moments. Depicting the explicit yellows and violets of life. Scabbed knees and frosted surprises.

A colour not seen, but felt.