Maybe to you I'm nothing more than shades
Of black and white.
The dark and the light at war,
tearing apart a broken body
Until it's left to waste.
Shadows haunting an already ghost of a soul.
Your shutter always sticks so that
I come out in incomplete smudges.

I used to exist in color,
But maybe that's too far gone.
Those photos are all lost
Or melted by the sun.

Red lips and brown eyes --
Glossed over now, as black.
Peachy skin and soft freckles...
Look sickly white, a dotted grey.

Your pictures are framed in galleries,
And people ponder what they may mean...
But my old photographer, all of his pictures were only meant for me.