Numb, aching hearts.
Dried, rusted drops of blood on the edges of sharp little things hidden away in your many drawers.
Darkened rooms lit up wistfully by the passing of cars at 2 am.
Lips cracking into a chapped patchwork of blood when you finally open your mouth; because you refuse to talk or eat or drink or be – for days on end.
Long sleeves and sporadic haircuts in a hopeless attempt to battle the gloomy winter chill, because the sun never left the sky of the city you grew up in.
Listening to obscure grunge bands for an entire summer, so every time you hear the melancholy tune again you’re taken back to that time you went to the beach in the back of your friend’s truck – stale beer on your breath and salt in your soul.
Fake smiles slapped onto sad faces.
Crimson-veined eyes defying the many layers of mascara.
The feeling that empty blue horizons bring, the feeling that makes you turn off all the lights and stare into the empty space; the seemingly endless pit in your stomach that makes you wake up and break down at 4 am in the cold.
When you force yourself to tears because you don’t feel anything, at all, anymore.
The colour of loneliness.
Of voids that refuse to be filled.
An entire generation raised to drink and smoke and fuck and bleed in so many shades of blue.