Bruising
So I bruise easily.
One big green and purple beauty on my right leg, just above the knee.
One on my left cheek, as if I’d been brutalized by an misanthropically affectionate fist.
It’s a lovely greenish yellow.
I’m not making these things up.
This along with the scar over my breast from months back that has yet to heal over, and perhaps never will completely, makes me think muchly about wounds.
There are wounds that we carry with us and wounds that, oddly enough, carry us.
Those that we refuse to leave behind, and those that force us to recognize our own frailty.
I’m ok.
I just need to consume more iron and get over the cold I’ve had for the last week or so.
It’s just.. you wonder where the metaphor begins and where your body decides to showcase, against your will most times, your delicate nature that you otherwise would shelter from most suspecting eyes.
Is it in the exhibition of wounds that one one identifies more keenly personal fortitude and stoicism? Or is it all spirit gum and coal. Perhaps a cocktail of both.
No one is responsible for these little wounds. It’s just life in the living.
Bumps happen. As do scratches and cuts.
Would you rather hear me say that I bumped ugly and ugly bumped back?
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