Blue Rose

If trauma were coloured blue, we wouldn’t see blue blocks in the tapestry of our lives amid the colours of everything else.
Instead, we would see threads of blue reaching out like streams and tributaries from dark blue pools, to shade and tinge every moment of the story.

Here, faint blue wisps, the azure outline of a smile. There, a navy border, a midnight-blue bleeding into silent screams and frozen tears. All triumph and agony bound together, intertwined. A timeless twilight of the soul.

Tell someone to unpick the blue from this tapestry.
Tell them to unpick the shadow from their skin.
Tell them to pluck the thorns from a rose like broken, bloody teeth.
Tell them that their blue veins are a weakness that sickens or appals or disappoints you.

I pity you. You have no eye for colour.

Or pause, and breathe, and imagine for one moment (and there is always a moment) the weight of the whole blue sky on the hand reaching out.
See in those threads, those long lapis lines, the strength of the frame.

In the darkest of blues, the most frayed of edges, see their beating heart.

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