The bruise that talks

The door slammed—my thumb caught inside,

a violet bruise blooming slow,

a dark petal pressed beneath torn skin.

I wrap it tight with a bandage torn,

torn like the impatience crawling in my veins.

Every pulse a loudspeaker,

every ache a sentence I don’t want to say.

Sleep is a thief when the night is cold,

and this bruise is my stubborn proof:

that pain talks loudest when no one listens,

and silence is just the color of blue.