the colour of bruises

an ex lover
in the kebab shop says
my bra is too tight

because men know
these sorts of things

pink // blue
fresh bruise

he runs his finger over
the point where the elastic
cuts my flesh

tells me it looks uncomfortable

after an evening of trying to forget them
he makes them
front and center

i start talking
he cuts me off

i am a news broadcast
on silent

he tells me to
“love my body”

a euphemism
for what he would do

you missed the memo
i say
you don’t understand

he knows
what will “fix” me

you don’t need surgery, fury
because what is inside
is outside

unwittingly he describes the butchery
of small things
turning me
inside out

hey girly, smile for me

you missed the memo
i say again
referring to the last memo

he admits he doesn’t understand
but keeps telling me i don’t need to cut into myself
to feel w
hole

because men know
these sorts of things

presumably this violence
the kind that makes my skin
a wallpaper of my choosing

makes him feel vulnerable

like he could have been wrong
all these years

pink // blue
fresh bruises

sometimes
i am not angry

i am just hollow

if only i could shut my eyes
and plug my ears

like these men do