Sometimes people tell me to say happy things,
Conversations of spring and diamond rings.
Sometimes they take my black and brown away.
And hand me yellow, red, when I'd have gray.
Sometimes, they scorn my dress of blackened blue
For sparkled tops and flowery skirts in pinkish hue.
Sometimes, they don't want the mystery of night.
They'll have glittering doves in harmonious flight.
Sometimes, they "improve" me, and dub me a swan.
But  the mirror shows that my reflection is gone.