I still saw his blue eyes,
indelible behind my eyelids,
so that everything
I pictured was blue.

I remembered eggs in a nest,
the bitter smell of copper sulphate,
stiff, starched collars,
the blue tinge of skimmed milk.

Soft blue stocking stitch
on my skin, bright sapphire
pulled from my finger;
the roughness of denim.

He generated inky darkness,
muffling my screams
until all I could think was
these bruises will be blue.