My bruises, dark against pale skin, are mainly hidden, inaccessible, unseen – buried. I do not flaunt them, or speak much of their origin – though small and dramatic ones on epidermal surfaces, and open to all, can be viewed.
The one shown above, a large area of mottled wound, a below-the-skin haemorrhage tracing the rainbow in search of healing, occurred when I banged, hard, into the wheelbarrow when mowing the lawn.
In truth, I bruise very easily, always have, my white skin showing every mark clearly.
But what of the bruising within? What of those beautifully macabre inches of hurt flesh which, silent and hidden within pericardium or peritoneal sac or in the crevices of those parts of me which once made love? What of the bruising that was not battered in with knocks against bathtub or backs of chairs or clumsy meetings with hard surfaces? What of…
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