My heart bled ink
on the ivories
of the piano;
enveloping all white
in supreme darkness.

He painted every key
with careful, calculated words
that spat venom
to cover
to conceal
and to showcase
the superior identity
of the black keys.

Suffocating black drowned
strangled cries
as the white blended beneath
the black;
forced to play the same
sharp
note
while ignoring their own.

But music is harmony.
Without white, there is no melody.
As a monotonous sound resonated,
the black scrambled to recover
these voices --different,
soothing, rich in beauty--
have already broken.

And so the black keys play
--imbalanced, remorseful,
and forever imperfect.