If we bruised where we ached
we'd all see a different kind of beautiful.
With corrupted skin of a mapped out past
maybe we'd have a better understanding
Of who we really are.
We'll have the marks of a blue solar systems
across our heads and down our necks
Fuschia circles over each knot in our spines,
bruises in the shape of cuts
from being stabbed in the back.
There'd be deep navy outstretched from
tips of our fingers from yearning, from reaching, from holding on and letting go,
colour blooming on the soles of our feet
from walking and walking and running
After things were never going to catch
We'll have battle marks across our chests,
dark purples crafted over our broken hearts
Necks that hold dark fingerprints from
Choking on our words
Marks from soft things that shouldn't hurt
but do.
If we bruised where we ached,
we wouldn't be able to hide and maybe then,
and only then, we'll realise that
"I'm fine." Isn't always true
