Deep Tissue

I don't remember the table hitting me,

only the way the room felt too small

when I turned the corner too fast.

Now, steam rises off my skin

and there it is on the thigh—

a blooming, yellow-purple storm.

I press my thumb into the center.

The color drains away, turning white

like a ghost is hiding in the muscle,

until I let go and the blood

rushes back to claim the damage.

It’s a strange comfort to see it,

to have a mark that proves

I was actually there, moving,

even if I was doing it wrong.