Day Three

Day three of the bruise, a blue so profound,

it blooms like regret on the pale of my skin.

I bump into memories that echo around,

a table's sharp edge leaves its mark from within.

Each morning I wake, it shifts shades in light,

as if time has a palette, painting my pain.

A touch brings a wince, a reminder that fight

is often a story of loss, not just gain.

Yet there’s beauty in bruises, in stories they tell,

in the colors that blossom, the rawness that shows.

They speak of a moment where I didn’t dwell,

but rather, I stumbled, and the darkness arose.