i’ve always tried to paint bruises as flowers with words, but i’m realizing that the marks all those fuckers left on me were not beautiful. they were not as soft as petals. they weren’t pretty colors. they were yellowed & a sickly blue; they were too dark & they hurt to look at.
so, no, bruises are not flowers.
flowers come from love bites, consent to suckle on skin & leave warm hickeys. those are lovely. those are soft shades, even when they look harsh & brilliant. those are flowers.
abuse isn’t a garden.
my metaphors for bruises have been fundamentally wrong