The Blue That Spreads Without Sound

On pale skin the bruise unfurls,

mottled tide of fading pain.

Purple ink in crooked swirls,

a bloom without a name.

Day three’s slow, spreading bloom,

marked with angry red and gold.

Quiet speaking of the room—

wounds the body won’t yet hold.

Fingers trace the discolored bloom,

a silent story no one’s told,

the blue that grows without a sound,

a quiet map of hurt grown cold.