Bruise number one came from love:
Passionate, rough, and too fast to keep up with;
Like the advent of a thunderstorm that you’re on the qui vive for
From within the walls of your home, safe and sheltered.
Rushed, ecstatic, a colour on my skin-
That I traced lithely, over and over again.
Birthed from your lips, your teeth, your tongue,
A shade of your affection, blooming slowly along my veins.
Bruise number one was dulcet, an ache of love.
Bruise number two came from hate:
Distant and untrusting, a hollowed knot of temper;
Like the storm had arrived and I was in the eye of it,
Watching it rip the paper off my walls
And turn my world upside down.
It was all knuckles and fists, open palms and screams.
Stomping around the flat, louder than ever.
This was a hoarse hue I didn’t care very much for
A breaking of my skin I didn’t caress with nimble fingers-
Bruise number two rains down on me and floods my eyes.
I breathe softly and watch the morphing patterns from One and Two
As I walk away from the broken frame of the house we built,
From the uprooted tree and the cracks in the ground,
And I count in my head all the colours my skin has seen-
Alabaster, fawn, blush, mahogany, azure, heather, mauve-
And I stutter and stumble and fall to my knees,
Because between One and Two are all the moments-
All the hushed, enraptured sighs
And all the ugly, visceral, shrill echoes.
I know my skin will heal, you will not remain a scar on me,
Because my blood is pure crimson, a strong and ethereal tone;
A lot like me.