I sit here weeping so hard the skin on my face is taut. My mouth a gaping opening.

It leads to inside me where this connection to pain comes from. I wonder what colour it is there?

Is it black from the years I felt abandoned? Perhaps yellow from the fear I have shirked so often.

Maybe red from the long simmering rage that lies there erupting every once awhile to blow a lava coloured bubble through the grey bile of despair that covers it all, or is it the colour of the tears streaming down my face.

I can’t see the colour of raw, but I can feel the colour of raw. It’s the words on this page.