The mirror’s light unforgiving stark

The mirror’s light, unforgiving, stark,

catches the curve, a silent mark.

Not the angry red from impact’s first shout,

nor the purple-black, pushing blood out

from deeper places. No. This is day three.

A slow bloom, just for me.

My elbow, bent, reveals the deep,

a Prussian blue, where secrets sleep

just under skin, a map of hurt,

a spreading stain, a dark new shirt

on old muscle. A faint rim, pale gold,

like sunburnt grass, making me old

before my time. It doesn't ache now, not sharp.

Just sits there, a silent, painted harp.

A low thrum. A quiet fact.

How pain retreats, but leaves its tact

of color, a memory, soft and wide,

just beneath the surface, trying to hide.