The Dentist Chair

The lady in the light colored scrubs always says,

“Omg Celeste, blue like the sky!”

But I hate it.

I want to be Celeste, blue like sapphires.

Or Celeste, blue like the shimmery dress of the princess

movie I watched as a kid,

so light it looks almost silver. 

The sky though— it isn't tangible. 

I can't reach it, or wear it.

I can't bathe in it at the ocean because that's turquoise's job.

The sky is where the gates lie and angels roam

and I lay on a worn down chair, unstitching itself more by the minute.  

A murky sort of hospital blue, wrapped in sticky plastic. 

I am more than just a color,

and I am certainly not blue.

I am Celeste, a soul awaiting its wings too.