A Map of Bruises

A Map of Bruises

Last week’s storm left cartography

on my skin—

faded violets, yellow shores,

tiny archipelagos of ache.

I trace them like a traveler

without a ticket,

fingertips reading topography:

this crescent from the sharp word,

that small country from the stumble,

an inland sea where I forgot to breathe.

Every mark chooses its own weather.

Some bruise like twilight,

softening at the edges

until night forgives them.

Others keep a stubborn noon,

bright with remembering.

I used to hide the legend—

long sleeves, practiced laughter—

as if the body were a liar

And only smoothness told the truth.

But today I unfold the map,

let daylight translate the blues to gold.

Here is the border I won’t cross again.

Here is the bridge I’m building anyway.

Here—look—my name written

where the healing began.

If you ask for directions,

I’ll point to the north:

the pale green of almost-gone,

the tenderness that follows,

the quiet roads back to myself.

And when the colors migrate,

leaving blank, living paper,

I’ll keep the routes in muscle memory—

not to get lost more beautifully,

but to come home faster

each time.