Her skin is ebony, my skin is ivory. Maybe that's why you play us both like a piano. You say you would let one of us go, but everyone knows you can't create a beautiful melody without both ebony and ivory. I have always been your Plan B. That way, if ebony fades, at least you still have me. And even though silence isn't a song I should know all the words to, I haven't been played much lately. The soundtrack to my life is an empty room stuck on repeat, and for every time I have cried out for help with no reply, silence has tattooed its melody on my skin. You used to run your fingers over my scars as though you were reading brail. The unsettling way your electric eyes grew dim only echoed what I already knew; silence is a sound you never wish to hear again. The eerie ballad that keeps me awake at night is the same song embedded in your fingertips. The demons inside your head tormented you day and night, but the quiet was so deafening that no one could hear you. Now your shaking hands pound out frantic melodies in order to numb the sting of secrecy that surrounds you. Like most amateurs, you started by playing only the alabaster keys. The music you performed was slow and sweet like summertime. Each assent filled your lungs and allowed your heart to leap for the first time. But the longer your fingers fluttered over ivory, you began to feel all the cracks in my porcelain skin. The once sweet sonnet that we created curdled into sour notes and blank expressions. Your eyes searched the obsidian keys with curiosity, and cautiously, you played us both at once. She withdrew your breath from the very beginning. Each chord she played on your heartstrings made my broken melody fall flat, just like the devotion I laid at your feet. But you gave all your love to ebony, and all your silence to me. Your ivory. Your Plan B.