August light folds itself thin, a pale scarf left on the sill~
I watch it drift, unsure whether it’s leaving or lingering for me.
In its hush, I learn how even brightness carries a soft bruise of longing.
“Domestic violence often follows a cycle that includes tension building, an incident of abuse, reconciliation, and a calm phase before the cycle repeats. This pattern can escalate over time, with the frequency and severity of abuse increasing.”
Mayo Clinic. Wikipedia
You are beautiful even when black and blue
You are the victims and survivors of violence
You are men and women hiding a bruise
Pretending makeup or shades is just styling
You walk sandy soft for there’s a big stick
Or a belt or a fist or and words that hurt
You are afraid to leave maybe you have kids
Amethyst heart the pattern starts it’s absurd
Patterns first you are being green gaslit
Always a scream blaming you for it all
Next is the scene you wish to skip
Throwing things or maybe you against the wall
You are not to blame for the pain
Carefully you must exit but it’s hard
Perhaps it’s the way he/she calls your name
You know that the apology is to start
Spread your wings battered butterfly
God created you to persevere in life
Make a plan to escape and fly high
Happiness will follow in due time
They speak like the sky owes them answers.
I sit quiet, a stone in their storm.
Their voices rise
Mine stays buried.
They say “He’s watching.”
I feel watched.
Not by God.
By them. Their eyes
Soft, but sharp.
Like feathers hiding knives.
I smile.
It hurts and I nod.
It burns.
They pray.
I pretend. Because I love them.
Because I need them.
Because I don’t want to be the ghost at the table.
Their faith is loud.
As mine is a bruise.
Not purple and not visible.
But tender every time they say “saved.”
I want to scream
As much as I want to run and
I want to be held without being fixed.
I want to belong without being erased.
And I want to stay.
Because leaving feels like dying.
And I want to leave
But staying feels like disappearing.
But I don’t know which ache is worse.
~~~
There was a girl in a night club,
Who tripped in that crowded pub.
She bruised her left arm,
But laughed off the harm,
And danced while a dog ate her grub.
Grief anchored in stone,
tears in layers frown to heal,
burdens drag me down-
growth slows down in ooze of filth
lungs choked, deny me air.
Bile and amethyst
wash the past into the now,
eyes can only weep
only sadness strikes clearly
vision veiled by endless pain
Future sanitised
emerging strong and careful
grief is cauterised
puss expelled with painful squeeze
sorrow becomes a weapon
I kissed the fall.
Ran barefoot through glass and silence.
Told him I loved him—
even when it undid me.
It was raw.
It was ruin.
But it stayed,
like a scar
worth naming
icy pellets fall
covers all in a slick sheet
my body purple
Putrescent figs and spoiling fruit,
left in the fridge and long forgotten:
show kindness to that big, mean brute,
or likewise may your day be rotten.
----------
Another Bagarthach, 8a:9b:8a:9b
Songs from a life, sounds like the blues,
microwave fries, pot noodle, stews,
dead on two legs, only half-nine,
saying yes, to the overtime,
this months rent and the kids' new shoes.
Paying forward, paying your dues,
when there isn't much left to lose,
longing for friends, weekends and wine,
songs from a life.
Cut price make up covers the bruise,
somewhere hard cash, won't look for clues,
warning the kids to keep off-line,
praying tomorrow, turns out fine,
unreported on last nights news,
songs from a life.
A BRUISE
A bruise, tender soft sounding word,
under which, pain can hide,
Abused one said, “ Oh, that’s nothing,”
see bruise … and know she lied.
Agree some bruises, not nothing,
can’t see so faint and small.
Not even under the bright light,
from lampshade … in the hall
But we are discussing abuse,
expensive bruise to hide.
Type expensive cosmetics can’t,
cover pain … or their pride.
A bruise is not a loving lick,
what narcissist, might say.
Abuser just prays to God,
that he will … just go away.
Aug. 31, 2023
CREATIVE WRITING CONTEST
SPONSOR: SOTTO POET
The Israelis can not agree
Upon whom their leader should be
They are told to pray
But what should they say -
Pronoun M, F, X, or all three?
clarity seeps the wound
the flip phone missing digits
a womb infused with violet hues
it's quiet till it fidgets
happenstance and bruise
it swells for martyr avenues
the screen is cracked yet vivid
seed in purple
seized usurper
seems the impact killed it
Like a bruise melting from blue to black, grief shows up slowly,
Appearing in the steam of coffee once shared, a laugh similar,
Yet as scabs heal back to pink flesh, grief’s ache dulls with time.
Stubbing a toe hurts like hell
Count to ten or curse and yell
Never to learn, walking in bare feet
When suddenly brick pillar my foot did meet.
Limping, near crying I hobble indoors
My stupidity again put me in the wars
Elevating my foot hoping pain quickly ease
Controlling each breath as I slowly deep breathe.
Scrapes of skin and beginning to bruise
My little toe, shades of red and blue hues
Swollen, still swelling and when I think back
I'm sure I did hear the sound of a crack.
Pain killers inside me, indoors I did stay
The bruising and toe was bigger next day
My tiny toe like a mini fat sausage
Shoes always wear - my imprinted self message.
12.08.21
In your eyes
huge vacuum
sleazy
step forward, says.
implore forgiveness
You strive for blandness.
better way
endears
sightless saw
a speck
Fear query
hold you in shackles
horrifyingly bruised
him
as haystack needle.
(Yalto)
"Yalto" is a form invented Edward Ibah
Line 1-15: 3,4,2,4,5,3,2,3,2,3,3,5,6,1,5 syllables
Date written: 03/27/2021
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