Mi vida negra

I lie prostrate as the moon rises against its familiar canvas of black sky. Yet again my mind turns to subjects as dark as that sky - the futility of my existence; of the existence of all humans on this Earth; of being the only being to understand the insignificance of life.

For the end is near. My eyes close; my alabaster skin blanches further, a whiter shade of pale. Creamy, like the milk that I pour on my Weetabix at the dawn of each wearisome day. Rough at first, like my heart... soaking in milk, a drowning sponge.

I am beautiful... no matter what they say.

I weep.