Shades of Gray

The silence hurt the most. Because though all of the not-talking and not-yelling and not-even-whispering, I could hear the clothes fold into perfect squares and land into the perfect crevices you created in our hearts. I could hear the zipper like you were forever sealing us out of your life. I guess all you needed was that suitcase and anything that could fit in it. We never fit, did we? I could hear the lies that screamed and the tears that never fell. I could hear your footsteps closing the door on us, on me.

You always told me I colored your world a million shaded of rainbow.

Like every time you sat through my soccer games in the pouring rain. Or when I played in the piano recital and even when I messed up you acted like I was perfect. Or when you pushed me for hours on the swing in our backyard. Or when you made me try your chocolate tofu pudding. Or when you handed me a glass of water every night but made me promise to save some for the fishies.

Maybe you didn't have room in your suitcase for my box of crayons or maybe you took them out to make room for the nights you said you spent at the office, or the years of guilt that you couldn't get rid of.

Give me back my crayons.

I’m living in shades of grey.

Are you?