Third Day Blue

Blue cracks across my skin—

not the red rawness of fresh pain,

but that deep slow bruising

that creeps like spilled ink

under porcelain.

It’s the color of winter shadows

caught behind glass,

of cracked paint on weathered walls.

A bruise telling time

in shades too exact to ignore.

I watch it settle and spread,

a map of slow damage,

a quiet story told in blue,

the slow-moving proof

that something broke, unseen.

And it’s not pretty—

just this hard, bruised blue,

like a word that never quite leaves,

staining everything it touches.