This is one of my favorite poems:
A black door, a white door, a door that’s all red, one will mean life, two mean you’re dead. All three are locked, you have just one key. Only open one, leave the others be. There’s no going back, you keep what you choose. One helps you gain, two make you lose. Then, from the white door, not sure if you’re right, you think that you see a faint glow of light.

My name’s Marta.  To help you see my perspective, well, actually, never mind, you can’t see my perspective; I’m blind.

“How can a blind person distinguish colors?”

“Well, I wasn’t always blind. It happened like this:”

Have you ever seen a street fight? They can get pretty dirty, and I happened to be in the middle of one. I’m not sure what it was over, but the people around me were pretty mad. And I was positive that they were drunk.

“Gimme it!!!” shouted the first, balling his fists. 
The other one muttered some unintelligible gibberish that I was too far away to understand.

“Oh yeah?” challenged the first.

“Uh…huh!!!”  Indistinct, the slurred words of the second were barely comprehensible. A rock from the first was thrown at him. I was lucky I ducked. Then my luck turned for the worst.  The second threw a broken glass bottle at the first. He missed. The color green was the last thing I ever saw.
The doctor told me the glass had damaged my optic nerves beyond repair. He then asked me,
“Do you want to see the thing that made you blind?”
I glared at him the best I could and said with a voice like a knife,
“Remember? I. Am. BLIND. I can’t see anything. But, I will feel.” I will always remember the feeling of the smooth glass that I knew was green, like a lake with no wind, an uncracked eggshell. The sharp, jagged edges, like many tiny daggers, the teeth of an evil monster, ready to swallow me in one bite.
What made me blind was the last thing I ever saw. Colors were always so vivid to me back then; I had taken their beauty for granted. Sometimes I still have the illusion that if I open my eyes, I can see the room again. And every time I try, I see the sharp points in my mind, coming towards me, to take away my freedom. Like spears, prodding me into my prison of darkness.
Now it’s easier. I can tell where I’m going, if I’m familiar with the landscape. No one can sneak up on me, because with loss of sight comes better hearing. I can tell you what things look like, by feeling them. For instance, if I asked you what a pencil looked like, you might say yellow or orange. But if you ever asked me what a pencil looked like, I would say it had flat edges, cold, hard, metal at the end, and a sharp point that felt smooth on the edges. Not once would I mention orange. Living in darkness is the absolute worst thing that could ever happen to you. I wish I could have light again. I would never take it for granted. Now it is gone from me forever, ripped out of my arms. Please, I beg you, don’t ever make the mistake that I did. It will ruin your life, and you will regret it forever. All because of one mistake. What was the mistake, you ask? Just to make some cash, I happened to be the one who sold them the alcohol.