No Story Here

The purple bloom, dark and deep,

on my forearm, a silent creep.

No memory of the hard hit,

just this color, where shadows sit.

It feels a little sore to press,

a dull, internal, mild distress.

No fall, no sudden, clumsy blow,

just this canvas, starts to show

a story I can't quite recall.

It spreads, a watercolor, over all

the pale skin, from blue to green.

A quiet violence, rarely seen

or felt, until its color comes.

My body speaks, with muted drums.