you swirl hues of blue on my face until it is stained

then tell me since my complexion remains blue i must

be sad. your voice overpowers mine when i argue
it is just the paint. you tell me i am sad so much

i believe it.

 

the blue stings my face and i try to imagine

you painting me yellow instead. i wonder

if yellow paint would burn or if it would feel

gentle and timid - how your kisses used to feel

before they turned hungry.

 

i turn sad and realize sad is a guttural feeling

in which gravity tugs more violently at your body.

i don’t know how you painted my organs blue.

each pulse feeds the bulb of blue paint you plagued

me with.

 

maybe you injected blue into my veins or shoved

spoonfuls of it into my mouth when i was sleeping.

in my dreams i created truths behind your falsities

and stared at myself in mirrors and replaced

the little ball of vibrant red flame you stole from my eyes.