blue is not a color

Like sacks of blue
We fall with dust into your lap
And beg to be a different concept.

Our voice is a twisted whisper
Resting in the back of our skulls
Keeping the grey one company.

Our fingers lie with paper
And bruises
On the edge of her ribs

And she keeps them there
And uses them
As if they could help her not to feel.


You are an owner of many things
Countless things
Useless things..

And we own a concept
A terrible concept
A blue concept..