REPUBLISHED: Hued
A microessay no one wanted to publish so I'm publishing it anyway
A turquoise bruise creeps outwards from beneath the medical tape on my bicep. I poke the bruise and feel nothing, just like I felt nothing as the needle clicked into my arm, nor as the blood the color of my nephew's favorite firetruck pooled in the plastic monitor clinging to my arm like a Band-Aid. I am the embroidery hanging on my grandmother's wall. Last week, I drug my limbs through the sludge lining their crevices so I could tickle the moon with girls whose bodies sometimes bruise in the same way as mine. We each would have preferred to plant our feet on the ground but heights to which our bodies will soar is astounding. Other times, we speak but our words stumble over one another into depths unseen. I barely remember the time of my life when a prick felt like my body bursting into shards of glass, but I remember the first time I lifted medical tape to reveal a combustion of lilac and sickly yellow. I don't have a favorite hue but I know I have a least favorite. How would a paint brush feel in my hands? The calluses on my fingertips have softened into the turquoise bruise so hopefully, some day soon, I can tell you.
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