Mistreatment, abandonment, corruption, exploitation,
Things that have been done, without any explanation.
Blue down the face, red down the brain,
Creating a purple, pleasurable feeling, of cruelty in perverted vain.
Yet the pleasure is reversed, for it was just an excuse,
For the deepest excuse that came from the most purple bruise.

You notice the
bruises of many hues
painted across the ****** canvas
reflecting through the shade of mood.

You ask what happened?
But this question
would require me to break open the surface;
permeate my skin
for you to dissect,
explore the source
analyse and
do the autopsy of my past.

But I am not ready to show you
more than the bleed
that is close to the surface
threatening to break.

grab me and wrap me up
in hope and
possibility

paint my walls white
to erase these
bruises

softly hold my face as my eyes
pour out the worlds
pain

but please

whisper in the night
of your love
as i drift

I wake up seeing bruises on my body.
Huh.
Turns out self harm can knock a person out
Just as much as her smile does.

My knees always
get the brunt of it all.
Between bed corners,
light poles,
and the even sometimes
the gum-y underside of tables,
there’s a passport
of popped blood vessels
sitting on my skin.

And while the pre-chewed
peppermint smell and
sticky residue fade,
the bruises linger
like a supermarket peach.

Soft with warm skin,
darkened from
tumbles of truck beds
and clumsy stockers alike.

Still sweet, but
visibly damaged
from hands too unkind
to put me back on the shelf.

Maybe I’ll get chosen anyway.
Or maybe I’ll rot
in this ******* Georgia heat.
But I guess
I have to be patient.
After all,
the season
is just getting started.