Looking back, I’ve written entirely too many poems about being heartbroken. They didn’t deserve all those words, no more than they deserved the right to pick me up
watch me fall. Bruises go away, though. Nasty in the start, brooding beneath my skin. Tender to touch, my body slowly gets rid of them, working. Until there are no remnants of what they once were, only the freckles hoping against hope they won’t have to cry through the bruises again. And I just met you, and I’m only just asking. Please don’t start the war. I’m done fighting, but I’ll dust off my armor off if I have to.