A minute or a month ago,

Your life was packed into a box,

But before you left, you left behind

Me; painted blue.

The colour never faded,

It ripened, like a blueberry

Who should have been plucked,

But was forgotten.

As hours fell from the bush,

Instead of turning black, it was like

You had coloured me green, making me

Bitter, the taste that

Puckers your lips and wounds your tongue.

I wounded my own tongue, I

Used it to slice you, used it to watch just how far

I could push you,

I used it to see if you would spit me out.

But you never did.

And there were days of such

Vibrance, such yellows and oranges,

Oranges that deepened to red.

But that red always darkened, into the maroon

That was the colour of the blood

That I caused you to spill.

And now, I am blue again,

Yet I am not so dark. It’s a less

Painful blue; a resigned shade of acknowledgment.


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