Things that turn purple:
Feet, when exposed to the cold
Food, when exposed to oxygen
My face, when exposed to fear
To my habits
To my past.
The mention of tying a noose brings pictures to my mind
Of how I used to plan my own death
While paging through a magazine in a waiting room
Ready for the doctors to see me
To tell me I wasn't that sick
Because they didn't know the things I did to myself
I covered up the sliced layers of my skin quite nicely
With different grades of fabric
The belts tied in the shape of my neck
Hung like skeletons in my closet
People kept telling me it was his fault I was so distraught
But that did not make me feel any better
They would constantly tell me there were support groups for the molested
That I was not alone
But there is never any solace in being a statistic
Numbers burn across my skin like matches
Each additional time I heard them
The skin would bubble and blister
Forming a new wound for me to later pick the scab off
If the world did not do that first.
Through therapy, I learned that
When I try to carry the pieces of me
That are bigger than my hands can hold
That are sharper than my flesh can take
That are wider than my unwieldy body
Even though I didn't think that was possible
I crumble like the walls of Jericho
When an army came rushing the city limits.
My past is an armada that rushes full speed through my chest
Piercing me with swords and muskets and bullets
Causing me to bleed and rot from the inside out
Causing me to fall away like petal from stem
Causing me to implode silently
And maybe a sign of this disaster
A symptom of this sickness
Is discoloration.
Things turn purple
As a result of prolonged exposure
To their personal kryptonite.