I change for you. Did you know that?
It's not a choice, or a strategy. It's instinct. A natural shift. A redirect in programming. One that alters my color, to fit your palette.
Why do I do it?
To make your life easier. To add to what you already have. To enhance it, if I'm able and willing. I'm always willing.
Am I too willing?
It happens like seasons. Rapidly turning seasons. Or weather. Curated weather for your atmosphere.
You're welcome!
I didn't always know what it was, but I could feel it happening. Upon entering a space it would grip me. A need to change. To morph into a shape not altogether different from my original, but unique. A shade of myself. A fragment of fiction embedded in the truth. Because few can handle the full truth. All of my colors. That's a lot, even for me.
So, I mix them. Separate them. Cover some. Expose others. In an effort to blend seamlessly into your background.
If I make it that far, I can start to absorb. Not just your colors, but your voice, too. I can learn it. Let it brand itself, like a font. One I can use to write you a message and send it to you. To make you laugh. Or ache. To lift you up. To shine a hot light on what's good about you in the hope some warmth will reflect back onto me. Cold blooded as I am.
Is it painful?
Sometimes. But not so painful I don't seek out the pain again. It's like torn muscle, or tolerance to poison. The more I change, the easier changing becomes, and the longer I can remain changed.
Sometimes I make mistakes. I enter your orbit wearing the wrong shade of me, and I get kicked out, passed over, knocked down.
To attempt a color recalibration mid fall is futile, so I simply stop and float. I return to my base shade. Ash gray. Mousy brown. Colorless. I retreat. Until the stump of my broken tail can mend itself and regrow.
I crush easily. I fall hard. I cling to the environments I most want to occupy, and I change for them. Again and again.
I'm not a pretender.
It's all me.
Rough scales. Soft belly. Quiet lips. Wicked tongue. Sharp claws. Keen eyes. Fiery heart. Busy mind. Just not all at once.
I make myself the most loveable to you, so you don't have to try hard to love me.
Isn't that nice?
For a while maybe. But then I fuck it up and have to start over. From scratch. From gray. From ash. And while I'm shedding my failure and regenerating my thickest skin, I cling to those who love me for all my colors. Those who have witnessed them. One at a time. And all at once.
For them I don't change. They don't want me to.
On the spectrum of love, they are as close to me as you are far away.