Bruised Knees

My knees have known Bruises. 

A spectrum of colour staining my skin as a

reminder. 

Pigments of who I am, altered at their 

hands.

Fists clenched to strike, clench, imprint.

Each stain a bolt, a language seeping into 

my essence; teaching. 

My ribs have known bruises. 

Painted, I am every female ancestor face 

first in the dirt. 

My throat has known bruises. 

I never felt so transparent as I did wearing

 lesions beneath a high collar. 

Fading, my shell returns, burying the real

 wounds beneath it. 

But I am wiser. 

Healed I am every female ancestor face 

towards the Sun.

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