And they wondered why I wore black every day,

As if they weren’t murdering love, goodness, and truth with their raised cleavers of ugliness each and every day,

As if they hadn’t arranged for me a thousand funerals, turning each day into a new one to be attended.

Everyday I mourn the death of my inner child, having to dine with the criminals with my blood on their hands… my food tastes metallic.

I ingest mouthfuls of my own innocence, taught that the cost of life is death. If I am to eat, then I must bleed.

Yes, I wear black because I mourn the death of justice, for I know that the killers walk free, and they walk among me.

We have situated ourselves here on a house in the hills, high up top, to ignore the fact that we’ve earned ourselves a spot in the depths of the underworld.

If we surround ourselves with enough beauty, then the ugliness we’ve chosen might be more tolerable. If we reside high above, then the lowliness of our hearts may be less than evident. If we fill our bank accounts, then our minds’ emptiness is a nonissue.

Engorged bellies, starving spirits. White rugs and luxurious couches, dark minds, dark hearts. They don themselves in the finest robes of white to hide that which is shadowy within. I don myself in black because they’ve obscured the light within.

I wear black because I am their shadow. I wear black because that is the nature of the occasion. I show up to the slaughter on time, prepared daily to witness the sacrifice of the innocent, for this is the way things are, the way things have always been, and the way things must be.