giving up

There are too many lies here.
You would think at least one thing about me is true
You say: you can't possibly forget
That grey, after all, is still made of black and white
Truth was such a long time ago, dear
I am a desaturated chessboard
I can no longer make the distinction
Pawn or king.
Black or white.
Spawn or sibling.
Slack or slide.
Gravity does not apply here
I no longer have to pick up the pieces
They just float
To the music of a violin-playing goat.