The Sunken Colors

No difference. We are just the black living flesh when the lights go down.
The blood rushes into vein and slightly drops in red when the skin is ripped, but no one is screaming.

Mouth sealed, words unspoken, the victim is in silent.
You can't see the daunting red, only the heartbeat that sprints, competes with the clock that ticks.
Or the air that she breathes blown as cold as the freezing night in Everest.

"Help me!" she whispers from her little mouth, but only few who can hear her powerless voice.
She hopes that it was in the afternoon, and soon she realizes that she will put darkness into her top hated list.
When the sun can't help her, neither the humans do.
The universe agrees with her that when everything looks the same: no color, no make up, and everything just felt like a plain black dress in a funeral; no one knows who would need a helping hand or feel certain they belong to which clan.

Now she misses the rainbow, the blue sea, the mural paintings in a small city alley, the koi fishes, the blooming daffodils in the spring, the tropical punch, and her skin that's evenly painted in yellow but turned to tan in the burning sun.

"Lord, I yearn for the color in my life before this time. So that they know if I am in pain. So the world can clearly see if I was born with the same bone yet the different tone," she regrets deeply inside her heart while waiting for the lights to blink, to kiss their souls; and waiting for the sun to forgive that will reveal the big imperfection wound in her hand.