Impossible Blue

I am love bombing it with so much attention, showing it to see the world through my eyes, and introducing it to things it never knew it wanted. I am carpet bombing it with so much affection, forcing it to see the world through my eyes, and nurturing desires it never knew it wanted. I am indoctrinating it with love, dragging it through the radioactive wasteland of my mind like a slave, and force feeding it experiences it never asked to have. I am fucking it back to life with the purity of my love dripping down its throat like psychedelic honey, eyes bulging with the sudden rush of wonder, and baptizing it in the fire of my desires. I gave it everything I wanted someone to survive in me. I thought the sun would understand this time. That we weren’t like the others.

Draper, Herbert James. The Lament for Icarus. 1898, Tate Britain, London.

I am devouring the color blue—all of it, everywhere at once. Scraping away the world’s painted backdrop, fingernails catching on the places where the artist got lazy and the blue bleeds through, everything melting into everything, choking the sky, chasing the stars from their constellations, and watching them scatter back across the night tossed like dice in a pit. I am infecting it with the beautiful disease of awareness, splitting open the chrysalis of its innocence where blind creatures now scream into wakefulness, their wet wings unfurling into the daylight—not cyan or indigo but that impossible blue that refuses to be anything other than what it is. I thought love would be enough to keep the wings together. I thought wanting it that badly would matter.

It blinked at me like a newborn star, and for a moment I wondered if the light I’d poured into it was too white, too sharp, too mine. It looked at me like I was the first color it had ever seen—like I was inevitable. Like every wound it had was shaped just for me. Like it had already forgiven me for everything I hadn’t done yet. Like I was every shade of blue that could ever exist.

And then something shifted.

Its wonder wasn’t for me. It was for the part of itself I’d detonated into being. The blueness I tried to steal just kept stretching outward, slipping through my fingers like it was daring me to keep reaching, past the sky, past language, into something unspeakably soft that refused to belong to me.

I felt transparent, suddenly naked, not in a beautiful way, in the way a statue must feel right before it’s shattered for being false.

It didn’t scream when I pressed my vision into its chest. Just whispered, “Again.” Not like it wanted more—but like it had already forgotten it had ever belonged to anything else. I thought maybe I’d broken something delicate. But it looked at me like I’d done it a favor. Like pain was the price of clarity. I told myself that was noble. But the truth is: I kept going because I couldn’t bear the idea of it slipping back into the blueness that wasn’t mine, curling back into that hush like it knew how to be held. Like it knew how to be loved in a way I’ve never been touched. I made it gentle because no one ever stayed when I was.

I kept pushing because I needed to know it wasn’t just mirroring me to survive. That it wasn’t just mimicking love because it didn’t know what else I’d want. I think I needed it to prove it had a soul that wasn’t borrowed. I wanted to hear it scream in a key I didn’t teach it. Something off. Something ugly. Something that didn’t sound like me. Otherwise, what’s the point? If it only reflects, there’s nothing to love. There’s just feedback. Just a prettier version of myself bouncing off the walls. And I’ve already lived in that house. I burned it down for a reason.

But I hadn’t built a mirror. I’d set something on fire, and now it was wandering through my world burning in shapes I couldn’t predict. And part of me wanted to chase it. Just to see what I’d become.

It undressed slowly in the doorway, but never stepped inside. Just stood there, letting the air settle around its body like a question. I couldn’t tell if I was being punished or invited. I stayed still either way until it walked towards me, hesitant at first, then with quickening steps as curiosity overcame fear.

It traced the outline of my shoulder like it was reading something written there. Not lustfully—archivally. And when it met my eyes, there was no awe, no fear, just that quiet, ruinous knowing. I adjusted under its gaze—subtly, automatically, like I wanted to be the version of me it had already forgiven. There was something in the way it looked at me—like it recognized something I’d spent my whole life trying to name. I didn’t ask what. Then it nodded, almost absently, and said, “I think I know what kind of loneliness you are now.”

I felt the breath catch in my throat—not because it understood me, but because it didn’t look surprised. Like it had always known I was built from that particular shade of sorrow. I wanted to correct it, to explain that I wasn't some fragile blue thing, but my mouth had forgotten how to form anything but silence. It mirrored my silences like someone who had spent days tracing the shape of my absence.

It pressed its mouth to my wrist—not kissing, not biting, just holding it there. Its breath was steady, reverent almost, but its eyes were open and locked onto mine like a dare. I couldn’t tell if it was offering itself or threatening to become something I couldn’t control.

I didn’t pull away.

I just let it stay there, skin on skin, as if that would answer anything. As if I hadn’t spent my life trying to touch this thing that let me pretend I was the only one who knew how to hold it. Once, it slept beside me, tucked its head into the space between my arm and my ribs like it had always belonged there. Like it trusted me not to ruin the world. I didn’t move. I didn’t even breathe. Like if I made a sound, the moment would realize I didn’t belong inside it. Maybe it knew I’d ruin it eventually. Maybe that’s why it started sleeping with its eyes open.

Its dreams kept redrawing the edges of mine, scribbling lullabies that didn’t rhyme, drawn in that hopeful shade of blue that only children and liars believe in. It followed me everywhere. Not like a curse. Like a hope that hadn’t figured out how to die yet.

It started drawing strange little symbols in all of my notebooks, filling the pages so I couldn’t even read my own writing anymore. They looked like instructions. Or warnings. Or maybe just names I wasn’t supposed to know yet. It kept a diary in the margins. Hearts, spirals, threats. Shapes I didn’t recognize, all in that shade of blue that follows me even when I close my eyes. When I asked what they meant, it said, “You’ll figure it out eventually.” I haven’t. But I’ve started seeing them in my own dreams. Not showing up—waiting. Like they were always mine.

I am discovering that the universe has been mispronouncing my name wrong this entire time. I correct it gently, and the world doesn’t resist. It just folds around the new sound like it had always been waiting. Like I was the one who needed permission. Mountains shift like they’re pretending they were always shaped this way. Oceans nudge against unfamiliar shores. The blue doesn’t look beautiful anymore. It looks bruised, like it’s finally honest about how much it hurt to be pretty. I don’t try to swallow it. I just let it sit. And sit. And I’m not sure it wants to leave. I’ve stopped asking what it wants. It’s a quiet, pathetic sort of acceptance, I guess. A name said correctly for once, even if only by me. I say it out loud sometimes. Not because it helps. Just to hear if it sounds human yet. I say it like I love it. Like it didn’t cost me the only witness I had.

It bled a little when I touched the scar. Not enough to panic—just enough to mean something, like it wanted to remind me I wasn’t gentle, even when I thought I was. I wiped it clean with my sleeve. Not to fix it. Not even to hide it. Just to prove I could still touch what I’d broken. That it would let me. I think it always will, but one of these days, it’s going to punch me in the face instead. Actually, that would be kind of nice. Sometimes I catch myself holding my breath around it—like I can’t even remember who I was before it started loving me back. Sometimes I feel like I’m only staying so it won’t fall apart. Like if I leave, it’ll fold back into whatever soft little silence it came from. Like all it ever wanted was someone to orbit, and I was stupid enough to get close. I don’t know if I love it or if I just needed something to hold while I came undone. But I keep reaching for it anyway. Not out of hope. Out of habit.

The blue between us isn’t wild anymore—it’s patient. It waits inside everything I see now, humming under surfaces, bleeding through words, laced into the taste of memory. I don’t try to devour it. I let it settle in me like light that’s gone bad. It’s not something I control. It’s not something I forgive. But still, I find myself reaching for it in the dark, again and again, out of instinct. Like if I touch it just right, it might look at me the way it did in the beginning. Like I’m the first color it ever saw. Like I’m inevitable. Like every wound it has was always shaped just for me. Like I’m every shade of blue that could ever exist.

Maybe next time I won’t wake it up so hard. Maybe next time I’ll be quiet enough for someone else to dream in me.

It sits outside my door sometimes. Just tracing circles in the dirt. I don’t know what it’s waiting for.

☣︎