Pluck

If only the dream

of colourblindness

would come true,

so that I might miss

my greenness –

sick with envy,

the blue

in my saddening chest,

the black hole

you leave me in always,

the yellowing

of my cowardly centre –

every colour,

all better ignored.

The pure white truth,

however,

is that short of any grey gifts

that allow me

to deceive us both,

it may just be simpler

to pluck out my eyes.