Creature Speak

Bruises are beautiful when you’ve seen enough of them to recognize the colors. 

Unique hues in the language of blood under your skin.

Heart-whispers in reds and blues.  

Purple dreams dissipating and tender to the touch.  


These delicate darknesses tell a story; admitting that we took a chance on living,

and we are still here, haggard breath and all;

the light more alive in your eyes, sparkling from the tears.


Your aching heart emanates subtle shades that I can see because grief is a constant friend,

because everyone loves and everything dies, yet we love nonetheless.

Burgundy and cerulean pools are woven into your sheaths and into your pith, 

unique as the nuances of your pain, and some of the colors don’t have names.

Yet when the cracks are made, even in our ethers, begins the mending cascade.


We all know what bruises mean on the surface or in the places that we don’t need to see,

because the wounds we carry have a heartbeat all their own.

And some of us are always listening for the song that says another one hasn’t given up, 

despite the beatings, 

so maybe I can keep carrying on, too.


Your fragile reds and broken blues and every nameless hue 

on their journey of the shifting shades of healing, 

tell me we are doing this together.


And I can’t help but see the beauty in your wounds each time they occur,

because they give me more courage to love.


© 2023, Sheya Forest