Hues of the Colorblind

By Lexi Jones

I see magenta when others see red.

I see sage when others see green.

Even the slightest differences between what may look the same

are things I observe, but no one else has seen.

Perhaps they don’t even try,

when for me, it is utterly inescapable,

but they’re blessed with the ability to choose to be blind, though it's unclear if they are actually incapable.

A fractured connection in my brain started to drive me insane

because I grew to realize I may not be the same as those who claim to also be a different way.But again, this is mere observation—who am I to assume probabilities that feel impossible to explain?

It’s not certain that they feel what’s deeply rooted in my mind and overly conscious soul.

I have yet to fully know if this is something others are able to control,

yet observing idiosyncrasies and uniform oddities from those who seem to lack introspection

and over-analytical qualities speaks volumes about how I may be a catalyst in having scattered mentalities.

Everything that’s right in front of their face

remains unseen—unable to be absorbed,

these concepts and theories so far from being embraced or explored.

I may not have the wires in my head quite right,

maybe attached a little too well,

for everything I ever encounter is a little too apparent,

and nobody is even able to tell.

I’ll bite my tongue, I’ll compose myself,

and disguise the obscurities of how I think and what I do.

I’ll always keep hoping, yearning for someone to step into my shoes,

so unless one day people just happen to transform into whatever this way of processing may be,

or if they already do and I simply don’t realize—which would make all of this contradictory—I’ll let my own thoughts be heard and known,

so others can at least kind of comprehend.

With that, I refuse to ever mask my true way of how I live again,

not letting conformity for the sake of others' comfort

make me feel like I have to pretend.