Palette (Poetry)

The way you always paint me —
restrict your palette to those sombre tones
my face is shaped in countless shades of dark
as though I was the devil’s child
and light somehow avoids me.

You have no vision of what’s true
but bend the world to your surreal perspective
and all those greys you veil me with —
those ugly shadows —
are just figments of your brush.

I have colours in me — spectrums brighter
than your observation can perceive.
I glow for others — shed my beams
and mirror back the love they throw me.
I need to tell you, Mother —

                                Black is not a colour.