Bruise’s Slow Bloom

There it is—

the swollen patch spreading like spilled ink,

not red anymore, nor black,

a cold blue creeping beneath my skin.

Caught it in the mirror, this morning’s glare

catching that stubborn shadow,

half-mooned bruise swelling slow like winter’s shadow

that won’t quit the streetlamp’s dull light.

Three days folded into color,

a mark that says what my mouth can’t—

this hard knock, this scraped breath,

a reminder that pain stays, even when we try not to look.

It’s stubborn,

that dull throb under fabric,

that frozen moment in time

taking up too much space in my skin.

The world moves on,

but here in this blue bruise

it feels like something’s holding on

and I can’t say why.