It’s a plum color today maybe a rusted peach

It’s a plum color today, maybe a rusted peach,

tucked right where the sleeve usually meets the skin.

It’s the kind of geography I can’t quite unteach,

a map of exactly how he wouldn't let me win.

I was turning for the door, my keys already out,

when the pressure bloomed against the bone.

Now I’m standing in the steam, beginning to doubt

if I’m better off being left entirely alone.

It’s a perfect oval, a pressure-shaped stain,

sitting on my bicep like a heavy, dark cloud.

Funny how the body keeps a record of the pain

long after the voice has stopped being loud.