She wears the colour black a lot and it’s not because she is a depressed suicidal teenager like her mom thinks. Oh no, it’s because she knows the colour. She understands it’s poetry. She understands the songs it sings and the stories it whispers. She knows that when she can’t sleep at 3 in the morning because her thoughts keep her wide awake, outside the world is dark-outside the world is black. When the mirror hands her the truth she rather not see her thoughts are painted in the very colour black. Late at night the corner she cries in alone, desperate for a shoulder, the only place she finds sanctuary is her secluded, tenebrous corner. When her insides cave in and the world feels heavy around her, when her strength begins to wither away and every small demand is for the stars in the sky her journal entries protest that what the heart cannot say. But those protests are locked in those journals forever despite their audaciousness- as is black. She sees it as those trapped words somebody painted over but couldn’t completely hide. She sees it is that mystery that is a mystery only because no one bothered to understand it. The colour is more than just a colour. The colour is a way of life.