Delicate Galaxies

I've always adored the concept of bruises,

especially the ones you don't remember getting.

The concept of living your life,

so fully,

so freely,

that you paint delicate galaxies along your skin.

A proof of living,

of being alive.

Except now

they remind me of you.

The way your fist

would etch itself into my skin,

leaving clusters of callous galaxies in its place.

No longer a proof of living,

but rather

reminders of surviving.

Survival of the fittest.

I didn't think I would survive,

I still don't sometimes,

but I am.

I am surviving.

No, scratch that,

I am thriving.

Now rather than think of you,

I think of all the wonderful things I had to do to paint that bruise.

Proof I am living,

I am alive,

and I am so grateful to be alive.