The Blue Room

The blue room is not really blue,
It was actually once the color of cream, or sand.
Or something like that.
But the walls have turned blue here and there
they are made out of bruises
from all the places you have hit me.
I spotted a patch of wall near the closet yesterday,
it was still the color of the shore.
I rubbed my hand against it several times;
it was the only piece of wall left
that didn't hurt when I touched it.
When you came in the mostly blue room,
I tried to hide it.
Standing in the way in desperation,
I raised up my arms like a meek shield.
But you hit me again, like you always do.

I don't know why I tried.

I turned around to look at my last treasure.
My last pale island on the wall.
It was as I already knew.

I don't know why I tried.

The waves already rolling in,
blue and swollen,
swept away the last of the room we painted together.
And now our guests will walk in and say,
"I guess it was always the blue room."