A girl sits crying
In the bathroom corner.
Just use another bathroom,
Just leave her alone
She will be fine
The next day,
The girl is not crying.

And people move on.

A boy comes in,
His face black and blue.
Just look away,
Just don't ask questions
He will be fine
Two weeks ahead,
The bruises are gone.

And people move on.

A child's screams,
Heard across the street.
Just lock the door,
Just close the blinds
They will be fine
The child is murdered,
They'll never recover.

And still,
*People move on

In the halls,
she calls for you.
In the halls,
the walls bled blue.

From fantasy to free,
the many years must fall.
Something is here,
I see it in the bruises,
all along my tiny arms.

The dinner table is set,
the china looks so swell.
There's a voice in my head,
telling me not to tell,
but it's you,
but it's you.

I remember in November
Knuckles turning purple as the leafs turned orange
My hand, a bruised, gnarled, yellow and indigo mess
How did this amazingly unfortunate injury happen?
I was punishing the walls
That saw my loss
But stayed quiet

A black fist
Rough hands
The smell of alcohol
Smoke in your lungs
And in your mouth
Tears don't stop the pain
Welts and bruises are the evidence
But no one looks, nor cares
Who notices what is hidden well...

to her with tea bag eyes
and wrists like scarlet fever,
gently undue your bruising ties
and unthaw your years of winter

--  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --
she breathed the where
and exhaled the won't be,
if only you'd been with her there,
to slow the feverish sea
--
up, to the nearest fall
down, in the mountain mist
she falls from nothing at all
just as she had wished
--
the moments leading to a place
took shape and color like music,
and with all the grace it takes
to purposefully lose it
--  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --  --

to her with shaking hands
and a mind like a burning temple,
remember your wish is your command,
and to always hold yourself gentle

You ask me what it takes to have fallen from belief
that words aren't enough to know
what love is.

All it takes
is the feeling of being held to the ground by your roots,
metaphorically and literally.
Sometimes I still feel bruises
that are no longer underneath my hair
and sometimes
I think my ancestral veins are laced
and patted dry for the viewing of our friends.
I remember wishing the wood would hit my skull
just a little harder
that my memories might sink between the cracks
like a spilled cup of orange juice
and maybe then I could forgive you
for things you “didn’t” do
and forget
that I was born with poison already mixed into my veins.
Maybe then your screaming
would be aimed and pierced
into another stranger’s eyes.
Maybe,
but probably not.

We all want to believe that love
comes automatically with shared blood,

     that your parents thought twice and more
     about what they made you for.
          Maybe,
          but probably not.

Fingers harshly kiss my skin,
As the sharpened words sink in.
My mind in a tail-spin,
and my heart broken.
This wasn't supposed to happen
This isn't who you were
But now it's who you are
And the bruises are mapping
The hand prints on my wrists.
The redness of my eyes,
is not from relief,
but from the pain you inflict.
A father is the first man their
Daughter will fall in love with.
But you were the first one to bruise
my heart.