Carpals, knees, elbows
scuffed. Cement carpet
freshly sears the fabric
then cuts, but a bruise
silhouettes the tear:
start Saturday raw, soon
swells a red ruby gulp
charring to black coal.
By Monday it slips
into a nebula of purple
constellations, a drink
of red still remaining.
You'll wish it never
faded – a jaundice
dulling swims palely
like the fated colour
of that new bike.
Rough draft of a childhood poem about good bruises. God I'm seemingly moody.