I was going to write a poem about bruises.
About how we over estimate pain,
under appreciate healing and
somehow manage to lose sight that
scars tell stories across time.
I wanted to start with their colors.
Swirls or imprints or or starbursts
of tortured black, royal purple, blue
so warm it brings tears to your eyes.
But the thing about bruises is, they're left behind.
They're left behind until they're found,
at which point we choose to ice them out.
Scars, those indelible fuckers, we'll
welcome into our narratives.
But bruises, they have no place beyond
a background character, a filler
until the moment resolves.
I wanted to write you a poem about bruises,
but there was no more space on the page,
no more room in the air after scars were whispered.
So, instead, I settled for midnight.
Midnight, a familiar comfort blanket,
dragged around and over the world.
We all claim to know it, but we've
spent more time asleep in its presence
than we have awake.
When's the last time you searched for midnight
in a tale,
in a scene,
between lovers tangled in sheets
or giggles shared between friends
or that picture book, the one with
beautiful illustrations in between
tucking everyone in for bed?
What was it, midnight moon?
Goodnight moon?
And if we're wishing the moon goodnight,
shouldn't the middle be recognized?
The point of no return before the sun
washes everything anew, yet again?
Before we lose sight of the stars,
visible against a deep black sky.
Or forget that nightmares and dreams alike
can feature purples so regal it
literally takes our breath away.
Or ponder why we are comfortable
finally feeling so blue in the safety of darkness.
I wrote a poem about bruises.
I hid it in midnight, scattered lines
about trauma and healing,
nightmares and dreams,
blacks and purples and blues.
I buried them like treasure
in places they would likely not be found.
Because we leave our bruises behind.
We carry the weight of our scars,
we'll bring our wars into new battles.
But.
We leave our bruises behind.
About how we over estimate pain,
under appreciate healing and
somehow manage to lose sight that
scars tell stories across time.
I wanted to start with their colors.
Swirls or imprints or or starbursts
of tortured black, royal purple, blue
so warm it brings tears to your eyes.
But the thing about bruises is, they're left behind.
They're left behind until they're found,
at which point we choose to ice them out.
Scars, those indelible fuckers, we'll
welcome into our narratives.
But bruises, they have no place beyond
a background character, a filler
until the moment resolves.
I wanted to write you a poem about bruises,
but there was no more space on the page,
no more room in the air after scars were whispered.
So, instead, I settled for midnight.
Midnight, a familiar comfort blanket,
dragged around and over the world.
We all claim to know it, but we've
spent more time asleep in its presence
than we have awake.
When's the last time you searched for midnight
in a tale,
in a scene,
between lovers tangled in sheets
or giggles shared between friends
or that picture book, the one with
beautiful illustrations in between
tucking everyone in for bed?
What was it, midnight moon?
Goodnight moon?
And if we're wishing the moon goodnight,
shouldn't the middle be recognized?
The point of no return before the sun
washes everything anew, yet again?
Before we lose sight of the stars,
visible against a deep black sky.
Or forget that nightmares and dreams alike
can feature purples so regal it
literally takes our breath away.
Or ponder why we are comfortable
finally feeling so blue in the safety of darkness.
I wrote a poem about bruises.
I hid it in midnight, scattered lines
about trauma and healing,
nightmares and dreams,
blacks and purples and blues.
I buried them like treasure
in places they would likely not be found.
Because we leave our bruises behind.
We carry the weight of our scars,
we'll bring our wars into new battles.
But.
We leave our bruises behind.
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