Black blouse

Black pants

Black skirt

Black dress

Black stockings

Black sneakers

Black flats

Swap them around for almost seven days a week

Constantly in black

Around the ever ticking clock that never stops

For work and survival

But it is starting to feel like an outfit for the walking dead

Day after day after day

Feeling blue

Staining my yellow skin

Seeping into my tired weak red heart

Removing me from my multicoloured paradise of the greens and the orange

And successfully reducing me into a full-stop or a shadow of my being

That ends all joy and laughs and invites only a

Silence as sombre as the colour itself.



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