The wound is the place where the light gets in. —Rumi
In the darkest corner of her heart, she carried a bruise. It was a deep, purplish ache that murmured of repressed memories, forgotten pain. Each beat of her heart sent ripples of sorrow through her veins, slight disturbances echoing the life she left behind, the abuse endured. She tried to hide her bruised heart, painting a smile on her lips to deceive the world. When the moon rose high, she would sit by her window, allow the bruise to bloom, to spread its tendrils across her face, like a spider’s web of melancholy. In the solitude of night, she healed, one tear at a time.
Read my companion poem, Violet Circles at Spillwords.
Although I have never been a victim of abuse, I have known women who have been abused, listened to their stories, and cried with them.
A cozy ghost tale:
John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt, 27 January 2024
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