If we bruised where we ached we’d all see a different kind of beautiful. With corrupted skin of a mapped out past maybe we’d have a better understanding. We’ll have the marks of blue solar systems across our heavy heads, circles over each knot in our spines, bruises in the shape of cuts from being stabbed in the back. There’d be deep navy in the outstretched tips of our fingers from yearning, from reaching, from holding on and letting go, colour blooming on the soles of our feet from walking and walking and running with inconsistent monotony. We’ll have battle marks across our chests, dark purples splattered on the left above our racing hearts. Necks hold dark fingerprints from the ache of being choked by soft things that shouldn’t hurt but do.
If we bruised where we ached, we wouldn’t be able to hide and maybe then, and only then, we’ll realise the lie in “I’m fine.”

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