The shape of a bruise

 

The shape of a bruise -

a heart entwined

in rose thorn abuse.

A crime scene photograph.

Leaving no clues.

We hide the proof,

cover it in loose clothes

to obscure the truth,

to stop the ink spreading,

to stop the shame

from shedding our skin.

 

I must have been to blame,

I must have loved them wrong.

 

The shape of a bruise -

a word used, trust abused,

chains of control, clanging

as you slouch,

a bird of hope flapping away.

Leaving, no choice, they lock

you in - just furniture, a door mat, a couch.

A book, pages torn out,

thrown into the fires

that rage upon unloved skin.

A weather map of storms

that have rained over our lands

by balled-up fists, the burnt remnants

from lips that have split atoms,

not caring hands and soothing smiles.

 

It's just the way they are.

They care really - it's my fault, I insist.

 

The shape of a bruise -

a kiss that hides its truth,

a caress that pretends to comfort you.

A building crumbling as the foundations

rumble beneath. A setting sun

that won't sit again in the sky for weeks.

A blue and purple tattoo that will fade,

leaving you alone, whilst the memory

remains. A moment of pain, but a lifetime

of trust washed away.

 

What can I do? No one will listen to me.

My words are just empty,

like the dead air inside of me.

 

The shape of a bruise -

a lightning bolt, a blinding light bulb.

A moment of enlightenment.

I won't be defined by your power games,

I won't be plugged into your mainframe

to drain my will again and again.

 

The shape of a bruise -

an exit sign hanging over an open doorway.