I. Bruised
Did you bump into
something—a table’s edge
or a low bench?
That’s a nasty one:
bluish-purple with
greenish-yellow.
More than a week’s time,
still fading.
I am delicate,
easily bruised,
like a peach
left on the counter
to ripen.
II. Scarred
After the last time,
I waited eight weeks to return,
no longer believing the things
they told me
about myself.
I am not heroic.
I am not selfless.
I am merely struggling to be
optimistic.
I have enough to give,
but it takes me a while
to convince myself
to try again.
III. Healed
Eight weeks.
I love the number
that turned upside-down
remains true to itself,
that turned on its side
becomes infinite.
My hope returns,
my fear abates.
Do not touch the bruise.
Do not examine the scar.
Wait: and dream
of the future,
when he is healed.
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