By Rose Karimi 🌼🖋️🌺
I often wonder why he loves that name.
Bold enough on how wrist, the blaced name on the bracelet.
I often wonder,
Whether his past is bruised
or whether the Lesions faded or healed.
We can fathom over the large masses of attacks
As a child, I’d often fall,get a fracture, dislocation but I loved bruises in particular.
They left me thinking about what lay underneath my skin.
The fluid that would ooze from the deepest part of my soul..
Mama warned me again and again about play that would get me bruised but evening would find me limping back again home..
I loved it,
The way pain became pressure to reassurance.
And that was how I kept going back to the same old spot,to the same old game,again and again
My skin discolored.
Blue and black marks defined my bruised knee cups .
And I’d go home again,sore,again.
scream to the disinfectant that mama used on me.
just a reminder that everything I loved was one day going to turn into pain.
And with time the bruises turned into beautiful tattoos all over my body.
They keep sending and screaming charms and spells to my being.
On certain nights,it’s just me and bruise on the rooftop..
The same spot,where I use to play.
The Same spot where my knee cups knew pain
but my soul knew love .
my soul found solace in the bruises,