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I traversed out the back door.
No one paused me.
Why should they care?
I was merely black-and-white.
The only way color goes in my lines
Is when I bump anger all over my family.
When it washes off, though,
So does their dark violet memories
Of the impact scapegoating has on me.
I could've worn a sweater to provide a crimson
That could fight away the chilling cobalt from the night...
But did I deserve comfort from the crimson
That could be an addictive replacement
To absent hugs from my mother assuring I'm worth a place on her mural?
Within the blanket of night,
I make out the crispy oranges and reds
Dropping from branches that are dark enough
To match the empathy-lacking eyes of Fate
During his decisions of what to make of me.
I had no desires of a destination,
So I moved that job to my feet.
My eyes are outlined in red
From lacerations of trying to shove darkness aside.
My hands are unable to provide assistance
Ever since morning blue resided in them
And was slowly exploring my arms.
The red by my eyes paints in their whites
As they are being pierced
By a stinging cloud of humid woe.
I tramp on a plateau of air
And found myself as a Jill with no Jack
Until my back stops at the bottom of the hill.
Oranges are on my torso,
Morning blue in my arms,
Dark red is passed from a pain in the back of my head.
Surroundings are cloudy as the message is clear:
Fate wanted me colored in,
And this was the portrait I had to create.