Blåmärke
Bruises, always bruised.
If not the outside,
then the in.
Always tripping;
I trip over you,
I trip over walls.
Hurting myself over and over,
Walking into walls;
Hurting you.
Forcing you into walls.
You trip into me,
we crash, and I hurt.
Bruises you can't always see.
Blåmärke on my heart.
The souvenir of pain,
The hallmark of hurt.
Always märked.
This poem was written by me, sometime late last year. I am guessing around August or September of 2002. Thanks.