Spectrum

They look at you and see only black and white. Not even the warmth of sepia or the antique yellow must of true age. You are boring to them, leached of colour. Out of fashion, out of date, yet not vintage, not retro, never chic. They ignore you, turn the uninterested films of square eyes from you, and latch on to someone, anything else. But they do not know that your monochrome visage is simply camouflage, the chrysalis that looks like a leaf.

You are nearly ready, though.

Soon your grey-scale nest will birth a rainbow of new women. Your body will be discarded, host after parasite. The red-orange one has already started to rip her way out, tearing at the gelatin-silvered paper of your skull, destroying the left side of your face, stroke-like. Eyes down, she shies from exposure.

The violet one is next, you can feel her poking at the soft flesh between your ribs. You can’t wait, have to stay your hands, those eager claws, wanting to hurry the process, to pick and peel and drying, dying skin.

They will finally see.