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.
Thanks for repeating this one, or I’d have missed it. Not everyone can keep a metaphor going without wearing it out, and you did it splendidly.
“Wear hats.” And costumes.
Glad you recycled this one -- it's a banger.
I'd like to believe our forthcoming conversation inspired your attention-demaning rant, at least partly, so even if nobody listens to the episode the discussion has already proven useful. Related: I'm joining Instagram.