The life cycle of a bruise.
It starts off being black blue purple, black clouds overhead, suffering with the blues, purple stains, welled up eyes and a lump in your throat. With time, the swelling decreases, instead of a stab, there stays a dull throbbing ache, the human shape void left behind. You try an ice pack, let the bruise heal. Love yourself more, build your space, by bricks and in bits. After a while all that remains is a memory, of the warm sun on a cold afternoon, crumpled bed sheets, moans that died a thousand deaths on the tip of your tongue, a flicker of light, a scar.
Today I realize that it is never a competition of who hurts more, whose pain is superior, more heart wrenching, gut crushing. True that we fall, face first, bruised hearts, deflated egos and punctured souls. But the both of us fall.
After all these years, to the ones who broke my heart, I wish you well. I want you to do more, be more, honestly enough. It takes heart to forgive, and I still may not be able to do it completely, hand to heart. That you fulfill your dreams, fall in love cause it really is beautiful, travel the world, reach the stars and move mountains.