I've always loved the colours he gave me.
They were warm, splashes of colours that splattered in front of me as a unobstructed mess, but he tugged the corners of his mouth to a grin, and painted me a canvas.
He smeared a terrain of happiness, wheezing lungs of laughing fits, and timid glances of adoration from across the room. He worshipped me as a religion.
He painted me a canvas; one that I saw beneath the vibrant colours of his eyes.
But he tore it down.
I didn't notice at first, until he got me a flower. I couldn't smell it.
The petals crippled with agony ,creasing at the seams, wilting— they turned a bleak, gray colour.
I couldn't see his pretty eyes either. They splotched with a plain, ugly grey.
He then broke the canvas till it barely held together at the corners.
And I shoved the remains down my throat— ripping it apart like a flock of vulture; hungry, ravenous.
But I didn't mean to.
Because I was aware— it was the only trace of affection I had left.
And I devoured it till the desperation washed my tongue.
He reeked of another, and I breathed in misery.
I woke up in the middle of the night. The stench of that woman was gone. I didn't need to check twice. He wasn't there.
It didn't hurt much. And I cried so much because of that.
I glanced by the mirror.
I couldn't see.
"No." My breath collapsed, my lungs constricting in black. The gray faded. But I couldn't see anything. I couldn't see anything at all.
My colours weren't there anymore.
"Don't take them away. Please. Please! Please!" He left me with nothing but my voice to rip itself apart, to scream for my colours back.
"Please. . ." The walls echoed my wails, but not his. My voice ceased to exist. And eventually, I stopped.