I never claimed to be an artist. That’s why I always turn down your offers of color.
I can’t create the brilliance in the world that I so appreciate.
My mind’s eye sees in black and white.
The only colors I can muster are the grays distilled from my soul.
If you could stand audience at my autopsy, you would see more than an abused liver and polluted lungs.
The room would be overtaken with the stench of rotting monotony.
No wonder you’ve always said my kisses taste so bland.
Who could help it with eyes like forgotten puddles and hair the color of sand.
I’ve always known how my legs jiggle as I walk, and of the constant slouch in my shoulders.
My only fault was believing you every time you told me I was something special.
After all, what could attract a flame to an ember?