Pantone Bruise

Life’s not fair.

I hate that.

It drives me to drink.

I drink a lot.

Innumerable glugs

Down

My

Gullet.

When I stir from my drunken coma,

I remember things can be beautiful.

I don’t know what I’ve done,

How it’s happened,

But there are bruises.

On my legs:

Four bruises.

On my arms:

Six and a half.

On my torso:

One behemoth.

Beauty all over.

Deep purples of

Night sky

Devoid of stars;

Trenches deep—

Dimly lit,

If at all,

With bioluminescence.

Anglers, man.

Sturdy yellows of

Mustard I can’t afford

(you know the kind);

A Mugler yellow—

Unapologetic,

Bold,

Also too expensive.

But it’s mine.

Mossy greens of

Cartoon swamp fog,

Green and opaque;

Broccoli stems—

Pale

Rich in iron,

Right?

It’s blood.

Officious blues of

Uniforms for people

More important than me;

And, ironically—

The inside of my eyelids

Where I can escape

When, desperately, I need

Calm.

I drink a lot.

Innumerable glugs.

Life’s not fair.

Although,

When I wake up

From being blacked out,

Nothing is black anymore.

It’s all my favorite color—

Bruise.