permanently blue for, you

Bruises are sometimes cool looking. Like, sometimes I am proud of them and feel tough. But there is also the yellowing greenish kind, the kind everyone averts their eyes from when they look at, the kind you try to cover up with clothes. You can live with bruises, live breathe and exist with bruises, and they’ll never kill you. They will just rot there. And no one feels bad for anyone with a bruise; it’s even kind of laughable. But they are very sensitive. They rot in one place. They get smaller until they cease to exist. They are tentative and rotten. They turn gross colors and no one wants to look at them. No one wants to touch them. And eventually no one shows them to anyone else. Sometimes you get bruises and you have no idea where they came from, but sometimes you can remember every single little thing that added to all the bruises on your body, and you don’t want to look at them anymore because you’re not proud of this bruise because its not pretty. Its something ugly about you. And no one wants to see it. No one thinks its pretty colors. It can become the same color of those gross linoleum tiles, where you feel like it'll blend in. On the floor, on linoleum tiles, whose entire existence revolves around being stepped on.

And she said losing love
Is like a window in your heart
Everybody sees you're blown apart
Everybody sees the wind blow