A letter to Clarissa from Septimus Warren Smith

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Black
is scary.
But it is a comfort –
a shriveled island
of nothing
masquerading as a
populated land
teeming with dark hair,
you can drop a needle
and not hear
where it lands.

Black
fills the outlines
of my silence,
it enhaces my anger
at the things
which no longer
make my heart race.

Black
is the void
where I sit
unkissed by sunshine,
the very air
I used to breathe
in triple doses.

Black
is the hurt
I have not felt
or discovered,
that will bite itself
as a reflex
of the sight.

Black
is the whisper
that tells me
I have nothing
left to lose
for I’ve been
stripped of care
little by little
like a decaying
chair,
sitting alone
and lonely
for it has outlived
its use.

Black is kind
merciful
benevolent
staying long enough
to hug me
as I ease into
my nothingness
where I grasp
in the darkness
trying to feel.

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