Ready, Aim, Fire

To you the toy gun
is clearly distinguishable from the one with bullets
that will pierce the skin
and lodge in the heart
and break things the way that you
snapped me over your knee
before I figured out how to make a statue
of myself so I didn't get hurt.

I see everything in greyscale.
I can't tell the difference between the brightly coloured
plastic toys that you say
you use on a daily basis,
and the metal ones
that share the gunmetal colour
of your eyes,
and there's no difference to me
between the cold eyes
and the gun you pull on me
while I'm looking the other way.

I guess to you it makes no sense
that I'd have that kind of impairment,
because from behind your cold eyes
my judgment looks
crystal clear,
but it only looks crystal clear
because you can't tell the difference
between different crystals.
Clear quartz crystals would, in fact,
be clear as crystal,
but there are darker shades too,
smoky and deceptive in their glimmer.

I can't tell the difference between the foam bullets
that are your idea of a joke
and the steel ones that are meant to kill.
It's not that I don't realise
that they aren't the same thing,
foam and steel
are rather different in character,
but how do I know
which one you're firing at me?

There are different ways of seeing,
and maybe mine is the one that's skewed,
but I'm not swapping out
my eyes for yours,
because even if yours can tell the difference
between the toy gun
and the Peacemaker
that only feeds our animosity,
my eyes are the only ones who can tell
the difference between fact and fiction.