Unaccounted

Yellow-green, the color of old mustard,

just above the elbow on the inside—

oval, the size and shape of a thumb pad

pressed too hard.

I stood at the mirror this morning

trying to build a timeline.

Last week. The week before.

Who had their hand there.

Nothing came.

Not a flash of it, not even

the edge of a room I could place—

just the bruise, already fading,

and the gap where the memory should be

which felt worse

than whatever made it.

I pressed my own thumb into it

to check the shape.

It fit.