Zohra Hussain

I have bruises
that don’t come with stories.

Look at this hurt and how I survived.

I throw love around like it’s glitter confetti
heart on my sleeve, in my hands
yours for the taking whenever you want

there is a garden with an empty patch waiting for your return

because there’s ink in my veins
waiting to be spilled

a reminder that
I could be crying
on the bathroom floor
and still love myself
the morning after.

You were like coffee
on cold autumnal mornings
that repeatedly burnt my tongue

Perhaps there’s always been an expiration date on us, counting down like a ticking time bomb.

but when morning comes
and the cold creeps in
I wake up and wish
it’s you and not him

You are a stain I don’t want to paint over, or wash out, or ever get rid of, even when my mother offers to do it for me. I just tell her that I’ll get around to doing it eventually, but we both know I never will.