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.