There resides in your body,
A space, so black and blue.
You choose to hide it under a cloth,
Or with a patchwork of your skin.
The mark, it colours itself,
Getting purpler everyday.
Your nerves, a tangled web,
An intricate passage to a bloody mess.
A painful portrayal of Van Gogh’s painting,
An artwork to be reckoned with.
A cycle of seasons all connected,
To a space so black and blue.
Autumn, it makes you shed,
The layers of your persona.
Winter, it makes you cold,
To the world outside at its behest.
Summer, it makes you clammy,
With sweaty palms and a dead heart.
The mark, a layer of the lifeless,
It makes you feel no pain,
A silent reminder of the source,
It hits you with all its might.