When I write I use different colors of ink.
Red for anger
Blue for sadness
Black for seriousness and fear.
"But what about happiness?" you may be thinking.
Those are written in pencil because they are the easiest to erase.
Red
Blue
Black
Those tend to stick around a while.
Sometimes they mix together
Creating a kaleidoscope of ink
Until they become a dreary purple-grey
Like bruised flesh that has just begun to fade.
I sink in that grey ink
Sulking endlessy
Until I too become ink...
I've kept this ink a secret for quite some time...
Why?
No one knows they exist and so I plan to keep it that way.
How?
They stay in tiny glass bottles
That hold gallons of ink.
Their age is beyond noticable,
There might as well be a neon sign above it.
Worn labels
Ink that's now more like paint
And an odor like a humid attic with a pest problem.
Look closer however, and you'll notice cracks.
The ink has been ever so methodically expanding and contorting its shape
And the bottle is cracking under the internal pressure.
The bottle is so close to shattering that the ink might just leak.
It's only a matter of time...
I foresaw this outcome
But every attempt to avoid it has failed.
This ink will drip down onto the floor 
Creating a messy, melancholic masterpiece!
Everyone will see it,
Everyone will know this ink exists.
Stop!
Please!
STOP!
They'll all judge me for it...
I didn't create this ink,
Yet I will be at fault.
Can these bottles be fixed?
I must keep this ink from ever being spilled,
But that might be unavoidable...
Maybe...
I should drink it?
Drinking it will keep anyone from seeing it...
But it might kill me.
Is that worth it?