imperfections: variations on the colour blue

I had forgotten I had written this.
This is part of an anthology of poetry called "imperfections" I had to compile for writer's craft, in which I had to juxtapose my poetry with a published poet's work.
This is one of the 3 pieces I wrote, meant to be paired with this poem by Andrea Gibson (a slam poet who I greatly admire).

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blue is the colour of 

3 in the morning 

alone 

where sleep doesn’t reach

because blue is the colour of 

the hospital gowns and bedsheets

that my veins

accentuate, 

lying beneath 

memories marked with

the scars of IVs 

dripping chemotherapy 

and the remainders 

of surgical thread 

running along my shoulder blade 

because blue is the colour of

the forget-me-nots 

in my hair 

whispering in my ear 

to always be thankful 

for being a survivor 

because 

you’re not expected to win

against the disease 

if the disease is made of 

your own cells

because blue is the colour 

of the ink that 

slips out of the 

hollow in my throat 

onto the page in 

scrawls that 

bruise my fingers 

and dyes my bones

in words that I don’t 

know how to say other than

Mom Dad

I’ve never been afraid of dying

I’m afraid of living with it again

because blue is the colour of 

the lake, the ocean,

the waves that pull

at my feet

trying to lull me to 

the peaceful deep,

but I am afraid of drowning

myself along with the thoughts

the demons

and so I stay awake with the sting 

of salt on my scabs and 

scars

and the taste of 

loneliness thick on my tongue