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The color of death is not black, is not white.  
                                                        ­                        Not red, not gold.  
Think: ashen skin.  
                               Think: where did the blood go?  
                                                          ­                       Think: pale, so ******* pale.
Bruise again.  He’s going to bruise again.  
     Mottled red   and      purple   and      blue   and      green   and      yellow.
That’s what the body does after death.  Blood runs down
to the lowest bend of the body and bruises the skin.  

The rust of cerebrospinal fluid as it sloshes
                      back and forth
       in the bag hanging above the bed.  
                                                      My mother’s hands:
white knuckled and gripping down on washcloths
to prevent her from breaking the skin of her palms.
The constant hum of telemetry,
                                the soft whoosh of the ventilator.

The human body has roughly 7% of its weight in blood.
The human body has no ******* idea what to do when
there is too much or too little of really anything.
Think: blood vessel bursting.
                            Think: cells mutating.
                                                  Think: proned patient coding after intubation.

Bruised.  His hands were bruised from all the needle-sticks,
from his lack of platelets.  And a single transfusion only goes so long.
                                                           ­   Goes three weeks long.  
The hands on the belly, laid so gently, so carefully are
covered in makeup.  The hair is parted wrong with a cowlick.
I know how they created that soft smile on his closed mouth.
                                                                         I’ve read the books.
                                            I’ve heard the talks from morticians.  
They’ve made my grandfather tan, but
I know what’s underneath the foundation:
                                                                                  grey.
writing your grief prompt nine: choose any color. let your mind follow that color to a memory, or a scene, or a story of any kind
GrumpyTurtle Apr 6
stole a pretty black lace corset

from mothers walk in closet

just to keep tugging ******* the strings

im bruising my waist

just to look like a vase

but ill wait and see what it brings.
i hate my body
i hate my body
i hate my body
i hate my body
i hate my body
no matter the exercise
the diet
the anything
i never seem to lose weight
and it *****
cause i hate my reflection
more than anything tbh
Mariah Roy Mar 18
𝘐 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘶𝘱𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘦𝘨
𝘗𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘭𝘦, 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘦, 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘦𝘥
𝘞𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦
𝘈 𝘴𝘶𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘥𝘰?
𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘰 𝘪𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶
“𝘏𝘦𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯”
𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘨𝘰 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺

𝘚𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵
𝘐𝘵𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘷𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘴, 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘩 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵
𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵
𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘶𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘴

𝘔𝘺 𝘭𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘴𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥, 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘥𝘰 𝘐 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦?
𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵’𝘴 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦
𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯
𝘐𝘮 𝘸𝘦𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘣𝘺 𝘴𝘢𝘥𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘮

𝘈𝘴 𝘐 𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵
𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘐 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨?
𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘐’𝘮 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨
𝘊𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 : 𝘐𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘉𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨
Giovanna Jan 31
Thanks for your gift,
love the bruise
you left on my soul.
I will wear it like my favourite tattoo
cause it'll say the story of you!
You tattooed on my soul
it hurt.
a sudden jolt of pain.

one that shocks you and causes tears to sting your eyes.

it hurt like that for a while,
and I thought I might never recover.

and maybe I won't.

but that stabbing feeling that used to keep me up at night
has dulled to an ache.

like a bruise, it hurts when touched,
when brushed against too closely.

sometimes I wince before it even hurts,
simply because I remember the pain.

but I sometimes (most of the time) forget
that the bruise is even there.

hidden under layers,
out of sight and out of mind.

so maybe I'm healing.

maybe one day the bruise will fully fade.

or maybe it won't.

but I think I'll be okay either way.

-n.h.
Alicia Moore Jan 7
She carries bruises in her grasp,
Like a plague she cannot unclasp.

The bruises hurt as much as heartbreak;
A piercing bite        
from a              
venomously
seductive      
snake.
mxshti Jan 6
Dipped in crimson
The sky bruised blue at the edges
Just like on her jaws etched
Didn't complain, could she?

Air of ash and smoke masked
The aura of captivity dusk to dawn,
Using white lighters to see whats infront
Says he was a poet by heart
But recited with scars
With poetry scrambled behind
Cigarette packets
Recital was rather peculiar
She was his muse, and well used
Couldn't leave, could she?

A storm reckless if left both unbound
Like Bonnie and Clyde
Begs to not fall in love
You might be shot, or left stranded
At the eye of the storm
Leaving you wondering why storms are
Named after people
It was definitely worth a try to let my heart go astray,
just so it could know how far it can venture.
It is a different emotion that it came back ragged and bruised,
what is more beautiful is the scars it carries now they glow in this darkness,
almost like stars illuminating my lonliest nights.
It ventured through storms and draughts went all the way and jumped off the edge of love, betrayal, promises and hope.
What came back was
a shattered piece
smiling through the cracks.
After all the bloodshed of
its dying laughter and unknown disaster,
It was definitely worth a try.
"The scars heal in shapes of roses with no thorns"
"Falling in love"
irony of this expression is pure genius.
Alex Kabat Dec 2020
what becomes of the body?
as the soul drains
and the spirit trickles
fluid from the tip of an IV

they bloom by the day
lilac blotches
in a field of pale white skin

i kneel at her side,
materialize when summoned
no matter how badly my bones ache:
allegiance to an addict

countless cuts from broken glass
screaming match
and sirens’ haunting pass
lacerations without stitches are liabilities, too.

i do not recall the age i became an adult,
can’t recall childhood fantasies
so i ask --
what becomes of the mind?
bones can only take so many
beatings until they surrender

do you understand
that a man who feels small
will always be
no matter how many times
his knuckles bleed

i know the difference
between a flower and a bruise
although i am still learning
how to let an empty heart go
on giving too much of myself & never knowing where to draw the line
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