The Elbow's Quiet Scars

Morning knocked—table edge and skin,

a dull thud where nerves pull tight.

The bruise blooms beneath the fold

of cotton sleeves and passing light.

Unseen witness to clumsy days,

dulled pain pressed into bone.

The elbow carries what I don’t say,

tight corners of myself alone.

Silent as the space it meets,

bruised but uncomplaining, still,

it holds the weight of small collisions

that only time can gently fill.