I am a bruise

A soft spot on your skin that it hurts to look at

A navy hoodie with black sweats toasty warm from the dryer

An ache so familiar it’s almost comfortable

That vulnerable appendage inviting confrontation

from door jambs and jolly bitches,

pointy corners and conscientious offenders

Apply pressure until I turn green and purple,

puce and chartreuse

A mere shade of who I am

Sore and tender,

when will I be at ease in my own skin?