The Kid Who Couldn’t See Color

[itsBrooksies]

A kid sits on the doorstep, while the others have already reached the top.
They used color—color the kid couldn’t even see.
He tries to reach up, even tries to imagine color,
But he’s just looked at strangely,
Then shoved aside by the crowd rushing in.


He turns to his family.
“Why do all the kids see color, and I don’t?”


That day he took a beating.
Even his family can’t see color.
They can’t answer his question—
But they can smell his tears,
And that makes them feel better.
Because it redirects their flaws back onto him.
It makes them feel whole.


The kids who see color, once they’ve climbed high enough,
Begin to cheer for others—so long as they’re strong.
One of them asks,
“Why do we kick the weak ones, even when they cheer for us?”
Another answers:
“Because they don’t see color.”


When they tire of climbing, these kids slide down in a burst of sparkles,
Showing off their best moments.
Some of them go back down to lift others up,
But not without strings.
“These kids owe us now,” they say.
“Forever.”


The kids who see color begin collecting it—
Stacking it, flaunting it, trading it.
But what happens when a colorless kid stumbles upon a stack,
And tries to wear it?


Imagine a sun burning itself out—
A firework pretending to be a star.
The colorless kid still has some color,
But it’s useless to him.
He doesn’t even see it.


To others, he looks like one of the rich kids who rode the slide,
A color hoarder.
But no—he just acts strange.


His family knows this could go either way.
But they are strange too.
Snakes with venom so quiet, you don’t know it’s in your blood
Until you start hating yourself.


They understand bleakness.
They only feel excitement when the world turns grey.


They hate fighters.
They hate the spark of resistance.
It repulses them.
And life has taught the kid to stop fighting,
Just like they did.


Now the kid is about to cry.
His family is sharpening their appetite.
Preparing their laughter.
Feasting on his despair.


“Haven’t we told you? You’re the kid who doesn’t see color.”


“Yes,” he says. “But aren’t you my family? Shouldn’t you want to help me stand?”


“Why?” they smile. “You’re our entertainment.
You give our life meaning.
You keep the cycle going.
They ignored us—so we’ll ignore you.”

 

[8CbZA-kHFu6pFgE*]

gay

 

[itsBrooksies]

I know

 

[itsBrooksies]

You don't like sparkles

 

[itsBrooksies]

There were two kinds of boys in that school.
Those who saw color, and those who didn’t.


Color wasn’t just red and blue—it was light in your voice, rhythm in your walk, respect in people’s eyes when you passed. The color-seers got birthday hugs, hallway nods, girls' eyes lingering longer.


Then there was Yassin, the colorless one.
No friends. No charm. No attention from girls unless it was rolled eyes or muffled laughs.
He didn’t smell like anything special.
His presence didn’t shift a room—his absence didn’t either.


And people knew it. They could feel it.
They treated him like a walking grayscale—an animal that was born without the right code.
Even his family acted like he was born wrong, like his voice came out cracked.
They mocked the way he stood.
They beat the hope out of his posture.


But then Chad came around.


Chad wasn’t his real name, of course—but that’s what people called him.
He had color in every step.
People laughed louder around him, adjusted their bodies to face him, girls looked at him like he was made of gold dust.


For reasons Yassin never fully understood, Chad let him hang around.
He said things like,

“You’re alright, bro. You’re just weird. Kinda funny, though.”
Sometimes Yassin wasn’t sure if it was kindness or curiosity, like Chad kept him around just to feel the contrast.

Chad liked being the sun in other people’s gray.
He had a way of convincing even the dullest guy that he had a flicker of color.
But it was borrowed light, not earned.


Still, it was better than nothing.


Yassin became one of the “losers” in Chad’s orbit. He was mocked less now—but not respected.
He was used as a punchline that everyone forgot to laugh at.


Then one night… something snapped.


It wasn’t dramatic. No lightning bolt.
Just Yassin, alone in his room, drawing.
He wasn’t trying to prove anything.
Just tracing lines. Breathing shapes. Doodling with a kind of madness.
And then he sang. Just one phrase.
A melody that felt like it had been waiting for years to crawl out his throat.


It was real.
Color.
Actual color.


He saw it dripping from his fingers, spiraling through his voice.
He didn’t just see it—he was it.


The next week, everything changed.


People started noticing.
Someone reposted his drawings online.
Someone else heard him sing on a clip.
A guy from the gym messaged him—said he should come train sometime, “You’ve got that fire, bro.”
The club kids let him in.
Girls started asking questions instead of giving stares.


He was making money now—nothing huge, but enough to buy food with pride.


Chad, of course, stuck around.
“Bro, I always told you you had something. I knew it,” he’d say.
He started showing up more.
Bragging, posting Yassin’s art like it was his discovery.


And Yassin knew what was happening.
He was being used. Again.
But this time, it was different.


Before, he was invisible. Now he was valuable.
Maybe not powerful.
Maybe still a little gray inside.
But this time, people leaned in when he spoke.
This time, he had color of his own.


And even if Chad fed on it, the kid had enough now to spare.

 

[Emba]

I bet he got robbed by niggers a lot

 

[elf]

I bet he got robbed by niggers a lot