Complexity is Red.

I blinked and now I'm losing grip on the bands that tell my story.

And turn towards the trees and gasp for the air that's decided to suffocate me.

And I cover my eyes and scream until the voices go away.

And then I drop, and suddenly there isn't anything higher

I look down on my brittle hands seeing them peel apart layer by layer till they've reached their very vulnerable center.

And I feel nothing.

And I breathe in the desperation of every tragic love story that is out there sympathizing with them and their torn up finger nails.

And I plead with no one but myself. To remember the sunsets and the guitar solos.

And I start to cry, throwing up the memories again. 

Back myself into a corner weeping with the floor boards from the pain from all this weight.

And then I catch myself starting to tear apart my own finger nails.

And then I remember that face. And then that other face. And they start blur by as my mind starts fast forwarding through them as if my heart can't take it anymore.

And then I decide to put trust in my mind and not my heart.
Then I stop writing and look up wondering why my writing brings nothing by darkness.
And I realize that happiness is simple and darkness is complex.