damage control
damage control
The bruise feathers outward, like soundwaves or an oil spill or a scyphozoan's intent. If I could see it, I would compare it's color to grape jelly or perhaps some exotic type of tide pool algae, a vegetation I don't have a name for. Or a coral reef, which is something that confuses me because a coral reef is alive but it is not a plant, even though it looks like one. Or rocks, maybe. Skeletons. I can't see the bruise because I'm too lazy to get up and find a mirror, which is possibly why I can't commit to a description.

I need a certain amount of mysoginy in my life if I am to be happy. There is a framed portrait of three owls above my bed. The owls have yellow-brown bottle bottom eyes. The portrait is not very good which is probably why it only cost $5 at Walgreen's. If I could be any kind of bird, I wouldn't be an owl.
I don't want to go to the emergency room. I explain this to him over and over again, with a number of different words that all mean the same thing. His concern is sweet and delicate, a thick-honey scented flower, petals that crumble at the touch.

"Also, the police would question you about it, and then you might not make it to the airport in time," I tell him.

I wonder what a taxidermist thinks about when he drains the blood and if a feather feels different when there is no heat beneath it. "I think you're bleeding internally," he tells me.

"Isn't that what a bruise is?" I ask. "Internal bleeding?" He finds a Sharpie in my desk and then returns to the bed, draws a circle around the bruise. No one has ever drawn a circle on my ass before with a felt tipped pen. I feel like this might be something special.

"Now I'll know," he says, "if it gets any bigger. If the bruise is bigger than the circle in the morning, I'm going to take you to the emergency room." Which is not true, because he's flying home in the morning and I can't remember his name.

"Why did you bite me so hard?" I ask him, but he doesn't answer.

I would feel better about all of this if he hadn't offered to iron my clothes for me. I tell him I don't wear clothing that requires such effort, but he swings his arms all through my closet anyway, brushing his skin against my wrinkled shirts. Lately I have been wondering: if something could be better, does that make it bad?