There is no colour.

Crying.

What colour can that be?

Is it black? Similar to that of nightfall that can shield my emotions from those who care.

Is it red? Just like the blood that beats inside my heart, only to turn into anger.

Is it green? The equivalent of the fear that I feel when I realize that these emotions are real.

Is it blue? Almost indistinguishable from the sky above me before turning grey, ruining what I’ve unlocked deep inside me.

Or is it orange? The way the sunset is in the distance, reflecting the water that flows down my face.

No. There is no colour to what I’m feeling—to what the hole inside my body that is beginning to pour out contains.

They are clear.

And clear is blank.