not even me

“i don't remember being made. i remember being carried. no name before that. no shape i picked for myself. just an edge and a weight against something that never once put me down. people ask about the black. they never ask about me. they look past the hand holding me straight to what i'm for, like i'm not also something that got picked up and never got to say no. i don't know why black. i only know i've been close enough to feel the moment gray would have been easier. easier to excuse. easier to blend into a door already half open. black doesn't blend. it doesn't dress itself up softer than the thing it's doing. i think that's the only mercy in this. nothing here pretends. i've been sharpened on the nights that felt worst, carried close through rooms where a small hand reached out and didn't get to keep what it was reaching for. i don't get to look away. i don't get to put myself down either. i just hang here. quiet. doing the one thing i was ever made for. and some nights i think the black isn't chosen for fear. i think it's chosen so nothing gets to say this was gentle, this was kind, this didn't cost anything. nothing here gets to lie. not the color. not the hand. not even me.”