I would rather write about the sufferings of my mother than about you
 
Who wants to hear of a woman
who has painted her room an azure of turquoise
waiting for her lovers return?
 
Not me.
 
 
I call the room that I sleep in ours though
you have never breathed the stinging scent of its
freshly painted walls.
 
The walls are turquoise for you
 
 
I spoke of turquoise once and you said it was the color of time.
You said time sweeps quickly like a family of birds, time sweeps
quickly
in a turquoise room.
 
 
Hey love, I have a new occupation:
 
Every night, I open my mouth slightly and let blue drip from the faucet
onto my pink tongue.
 
I am thirsty.
I stare at the turquoise walls too. Especially in the evenings.
 
 
Yesterday, the walls in our room became yellow.
You once told me yellow was the color of anxiety,
I said it was warm.
 
My walls have refused to be turquoise.
The yellow fills our room. A suffocating yellow.
Yellow. Yellow. Yellow. Yellow on all four walls and I cry.
Cry. Cry. Cry.
My walls have refused to be turquoise.
 
So,
 
I peeled the blue off the walls and rubbed it on my brown skin instead
and allowed yellow tears hang to hang in my eye-ducts.