Shadows Bruise Me

Shadows bruise me.

Your shadow cast over me, and

shadows bruise me.

 

Standing in the shade

ages me faster than

basting in the cheerful, toxic sun

from which you protect me.

 

Shadows bruise me.

I’ve known this since birth, but

you insist the light is far more harmful.

You hold an umbrella over me, and

shadows bruise me.

 

Under artificial lamps, I

examine my bruises,

admiring the mottled hues:

green, yellow, brown, blue

on a canvas of pale flesh.

 

Shadows bruise me,

but I am sentimental.

I am fond of dull pain, and

the sun may scorch or burn or char, but

shadows only bruise me.

Author's Note

first draft 4/2010