In The Gray

Often called the black sheep

I always imagine myself a softer nuanced gray Somewhere in the soft of my palate

is the in betweens of every experience

is the way I twist my hair

is the way Knot my letters

Is the way I distort my speech or chew the ends to my words

the way I string stories together to present novels to the world

often told I am less valuable for the color of my wool

I wonder if my walls are just as grim

If this cell box

parcel package of stories

Is just as bleak

Or am I the beauty of the space we’re uncomfortable with?

The awkward silence

A misstep

A flat note

A somber sunset

The silent morning

The space we seek to fill

Am I the mirror we shy distant from?

Am I all that we fear?

Our hesistance to know all that we do not

and so we call me less

to feel like more

…than gray.