sit in the middle of a white room, feel your naked skin and know that’s all you have. know the walls aren’t of colour, but your eyes are. know the floor is cold but your blood is warm, that the room is still but your blood is flowing. know that to break your naked skin would be to paint the room, to fill the room with warmth and movement and know that it makes you alive. know that the room can’t cry, but will hold you when you do. sit in the middle of a white room, feel alive.
death rears its ugly head in all the wrong places.