of all the colors, 

it is only gray that scares me. 

gray is color leaking from photographs, 

leaving only muted tones and unimagined spaces. 

gray is the piano’s average, 

the smeared zebra, 

the smudged yin-and-yang, 

and the dying forest.

gray is aging hair and realizing that we get older, 

whether we feel like it or not. 

gray exists underneath dyes and wigs and hats and 

anything else we might use to cover up just how long we have lived 

and how tired we have become. 

gray is shades of concrete jungle draped over a husk of existential dread, 

shrouded by the smog of industrial dreams and capitalist aspirations. 

gray is the daunting cliffsides, 

the decaying landscape,

and of course, 

the overcast sky that keeps us inside. 

gray is the substitute for silver when we aren’t feeling shiny and new,

or when the treasure has lost its original shine. 

gray is the day Mom picks you up from school

and neither of you say a word the entire ride home, 

because you won’t admit it, 

but both of you are so, 

so Sad. 

gray is cruel and cunning— 

crawling into your skin and whispering in your ear 

that you will never see other colors again.

gray is barbed wire wrapped around your arms, 

legs and throat, 

refusing to let you get up out of bed no matter how hard you struggle. 

gray is dangerous.

of all the colors, 

it is only gray that scares me.