bruising raze i can crack my knuckles on the ear of an old chair, slam my back or my hip against a door frame's rigid casing, stub my toes with such force it's a wonder the tiny bones that keep them together aren't crumbs — ash of oatmeal, soot of vanilla wafer cookie, soybean and palm kernel and canola killing themselves to stay alive — and nothing happens. then two faint patches of burnt sienna appear below the knee of my left leg, tender to the touch, when i haven't done a thing to myself. as if all the damaged cells that should have shown up somewhere else have migrated here in search of better weather. they never stay long. they're like most people that way. 220713 ... ovenbird My body bruises at the slightest touch. "You were always sensitive," my mother tells me. Sensitivity uses my skin for its finger painting projects. There's always some sign of injury, as if all the invisible hurts are rising to the surface, jostling to be seen. The bruises are an ancient cuneiform scrolling out over my body, every bump against the world is a stylus pressing into damp clay. I come home with a darkening record of everything I've touched: There's the place I grazed my ankle on the curb, there's the place I caught my shoulder on the doorframe, there's the place your sarcasm and indifference landed so many years ago--I can still see blood pooling just under the surface. 250423 what's it to you? who go blather from