these bruises
are beautiful
in a bad way

their pain
paints proof
of precious life
in delicate pops
of purples and blues

s.s

When words can’t say what you want them to
when your failures resound an anthem or two
I find your tongues more appealing than news
about the location of other phantoms or blues

When lines don’t line up the way I want them to
when I’m left heart-shattered at the peak of noon
Interrogation starts on our quarrelsome revenue
turning into May – is this a “hickie or a bruise”?

But may I ask you – not that I may not – I do
want to know – is this a “hickie or a bruise”?
Is it love is it a fight we put up because I blew
up all the sadness in your discs of jazzy blues?

But may I add to your sorrow a pinch of red hue?
would that enable us to create baby violets in lieu
Of blue depression or red violence – I want you
but wouldn’t choose between a hickie or a bruise

The color violet may be hard for you to value
when things suddenly emerge from the soil to
Bring forth new & renowned substantial food
it might seem like the plants speak in Hebrew

The bruises I tailored for you are hidden in the zoo
wandering preying ‘fore its attempt to ooze on you
But only when the lines line up & words overused
do they finally say my love what you want them to

The wings of butterflies let the sun shine through
now we know this is not a bruise
But a sun-kissed glow
it’s you
-

he lingered
like her bruises
serving a constant reminder
of the pain inflicted

s.s

she is sorry
for being so angry
sometimes
for being so intense
most times
for feeling too much
all the time
even with the most trivial of things
for always being ready to strike back
at the first sign of ache
and for always being on-the-move
so quick to pack her things
at the first sign of argument
for her soul is peppered with thorns
the sharp points turned inwards instead of out
and she can't help but yelp
even with the slightest of touch

her skin is still intact
but she is sure

yes she can feel it

there is a rupture within her

—and they just see them as bruises, nothing more

My what an expensive brand of bruise you wear!
It looks so real, like Fell Down the Stairs by House Wife
But surely not, none of us could afford it on our budget
It's genuine? I don't believe you.

Such an exquisite range of shades you have on,
And matching that dress so well!
Surely that's not a coordinating colour of cut lip too?
A gift from your partner? I don't believe you.

Dance deep beneath the central bar,
jump, spin, step and blur;
bruise, slide, collapse, collide,
pick yourself up and ssmile
a grin that shouts: never give in.
Pick up the beat, refuse defeat,
skip, slap,
skip, slap,
skip, slap, - leap,
let your feet - fly
...and repeat.

I like the colour purple,
     as it blooms across my skin,
The delicate spread of lavender,
     dappled with yellow and green.

I like the smell of iron,
     of copper pennies and blood
As it oozes form a scab
     or drips from a fresh cut.

I like the feel of my ribs,
     the bones beneath my skin,
The curve of my skull under my cheek,
     Or the joints of every knuckle.

The bruise of your
sudden absence
is a tattoo my heart
carries proudly.
But bruises and tattoos
turn bitter when they begin
pulling triggers;
How many times must I
bleed for you?
How many times must I
swallow the feeling of hollow
and still believe you care, my love?
Your soul's a stranger
but for love's sake
I'll take the danger
and let you turn my heart
into a cremation chamber.