The Mark

I saw it in the mirror this morning—

a bruise shaped like a hand.

A thumbprint. A warning.

Something I don't understand.

I pressed it to feel the pain.

Tried to remember.

Tried to trace back when

someone held me. Was it December?

A blank space. Nothing there.

I don't remember being grabbed.

I don't remember the hand.

I don't remember why I'm so sad

about a mark I can't understand.

Maybe I did it myself.

Maybe I grabbed my own arm.

Maybe I'm the one who put it on the shelf.

Maybe there's nothing to harm.

But that doesn't make sense.

You don't grab yourself like that.

You don't leave a thumbprint so tense.

That's not how it works. Not that.

Someone else was here.

Someone else's hand was on me.

Someone else left proof I can't ignore here—

proof of someone I can't see.

I kept pressing it.

Kept trying to feel

through the bruise what I'd missed.

Kept trying to heal.

The mark is still dark.

Still purple. Still there.

Still a question mark.

Still proof of someone's care.

Or someone's rage.

Or someone I know.

Or a page

I've forgotten. And so

I cover it up.

With a sleeve. With a lie.

With the hope that it'll suppress

what I can't justify.

The mark stays.

The memory stays gone.

And I walk through my days

with this proof I move on.