Saturday, 21 January 2017

every shade of blue.

Outside the living room, down the street , across the world , there are enough people but not enough saviors,
not enough for you.

The bathroom sink is flooded with your guilt , 
the glass shards of his anger littering the floor, 
still stinging, 
still merciless.

The dishes aren't wiped clean of yesterday's regrets ,
the penance you are paying like rent to live in this chaos
and trying to believe you can save this marriage.

The first time you met him , 
he'd already decided you were the one , 
you tested those waters with both feet at once, 
and you are still paying the price.

You honeymooned in Italy and said your vows in Venice
 and when you looked at this man then
 you swore he was the only way out of the darkness.

When the baby was born you decided to paint the walls yellow
because you reasoned,  yellow was a happy colour, 
but it was because you could already feel the blackness
growing in the heart of the man sharing your bed, 
the black that spilled over into the carpet 
and discoloured everything .

When he leaves in the morning you stir circles in your coffee
 and try not to think of your first date together.

When the toddler wakes up, 
you teach her the letters, 
the colours of the rainbow 
and worry about what she remembers from last night .

Red, you're saying ,
holding up a crayon,  
red is the colour of his rage 
when he returns home 
and it fills the room like the smell of potpourri , 
the blood that runs between your teeth 
when his fist slams into your jaw.

Orange, the colour of the lights swimming behind your eyes 
when you fall to the ground 
and your head begins to spin.

Yellow, you could paint every day of the calendar 
that goddamn colour
and it wouldn't take away any of this pain.

Green, every woman you see,
everywhere, across the streets, down the lane, 
incites this corrosive envy in you
because they can still leave the house
without being asked about their bruises.

Blue,  the colour of your skin
the first day he sheds his mask.

Violet, that was the colour of your dress on the first date
and god,
how you regret this insanity, 
how you regret Italy,
and the first coffee,
and ripping your hair out at three am ,
and still deciding to stick around with this man ,
and trying to save this house from your madness,
and yourself from his rage,
and trying to save your child from remembering anything,
except the damn colours , and the numbers you sing to her.

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