The Gray

The gray, it comes and goes
My permeable skin accepts it and releases it like lungs
Colors seem less bright, grayscale much darker, and neon becomes pastel
A shape shifter, but only I can see it
As the mirror's only reflecting my image to me
Trying to be patient with those don't believe me
But they have to be so god damned insistent that it becomes an irritation
Let me suffer, let me scream out in vain
Without a pittance of tar disguised as honey poured down my throat
Good intentions don't make the wrong words right
Argumentation is not an invitation for discussion
Good intentions do not make the wrong words right

They are the scope through which I see everything I desire but can't have
I see their wonderful configurations; the extruder through which they were pressed
Was shaped like a star, while mine was a half moon

To be cursed and hung upon a cross in the shape of a Y
Stumbling over excess baggage

Mourning the loss of children who never existed and will never exist
An empty tummy, a branch that ends abruptly, which grows leaves but no fruit

I am hated by others for existing and by myself for not
I was picked the lecherous overripe fruit that can't be trusted
To attempt a change by peeling back my skin reveals a soft and appealing pulp at the cost of rotting

I am trapped in a cell of flesh and bone
The shell that carries me is not my own