I often don’t know how I get the bruises.
My skin is delicate; this northern winter has kept it pale—as transparent as frozen water and these words.
Snowfall. Skyfall. Another winter storm predicted.
The wool socks, the layers—they fail. They cover my bruised legs but do not keep me warm.
My husband sees the mysterious bruises, concern always in his eyes.
The same way he sees every hidden thing.
While making overdue love.
While sleepily opening one eye to watch me dress in the cold morning.
On my thighs.
I have no explanation for bruises just as I have no explanation for
A lack of communication
And how I’m feeling
And what I want.
I do not know.
True, I have a low tolerance for pain
But I also can’t identify