I wrote this poem after a particularly bad week in which my anxiety reached an all-time high. I was unable to eat without feeling sick for several days, I barely slept, and I became so depressed over my lack of control of myself and my emotions that I spiraled, until even showering regularly was a chore I just couldn't tackle. As I write this, I am still struggling to pull myself out of this dark rabit hole I've found myself trapped in. Writing this has given me a moment's peace before jumping back into the swing of things, trying to put myself back on track.
Given the subject matter, I feel it's important to note I first scrawled this out in a notebook in blue ink.
The Color Blue
My Hell is not fire
and brimstone
and eternal damnation.
My Hell is three and a half blue painted walls,
covered in sticky notes
and reminders,
with smooth jazz playing
in the background--
the ensemble in a symphony
of telephone calls
and shortened breath.
The phone does not stop
no matter how fast I tap my fingers
against the faux wooden desk--
the phone does not care
that I have other work to do,
or that its incessant ringing has nearly driven me to tears.
It just rings,
and rings,
and
rings.
My Hell is the monotony of a
blue and white bedroom,
filled to the brim with
questionably clean clothing
and papers rom projects abandoned
long ago.
It is the way that room changes,
under the soft glow
of out-of-season Christmas lights
at 2AM
as I sit,
exhausted,
anxious,
and ill,
typing frantically to catch up on whatever work my illness
has let me fall behind on.
My Hell is bluer than the aura
the psychic sees around me,
marking the seemingly endless
"bad mood" I've been trapped in for days,
months,
years.
It is filled with blue walls,
blue paint,
blue pens,
and a pair of blue eyes
that still haunt me
when I can't sleep at night--
and when I can't sleep with you.
