Invisible Bruises - Illustrated
Chapter One: Beneath the Skin
Your hands
do not reach
for them
because
they are not
purple,
not blue,
not spread
beneath my skin
where the world
can point
and whisper,
"There.
That is where
it hurts."
My bruises
live
deeper
than that.
They bloom
beneath smiles
and behind eyes
that have learned
to stay dry
until the door
is locked
and the room
is dark enough
to hold
what I cannot
say.
Chapter Two: Smiling Through the Pain
No one notices
how long
it takes me
to get
out of bed,
how heavy
my chest
becomes
when morning
arrives again
asking me
to survive
another day
I never
asked for.
No one sees
the nights
I spend
awake,
staring
at the ceiling
as my thoughts
sharpen
themselves
into little
knives
that carve away
at everything
I used
to love.
Chapter Three: The Weight of Morning
There are bruises
where hope
used to sit.
Bruises
where laughter
once lived.
Bruises
on the parts
of me
that trusted
too easily,
that loved
too deeply,
that believed
rest would come
if I just
held on
a little
longer.
There are bruises
left by
every swallowed
word,
every forced
apology,
every moment
I convinced
myself
that maybe
I was
the problem.
Chapter Four: Hope Leaves Bruises
There are bruises
from being told
I think
too much,
feel
too much,
worry
too much,
as though
pain becomes
smaller
when someone
gives it
a simpler
name.
I have learned
to laugh
at the right
moments,
to nod
when spoken to,
to say,
"I'm just tired,"
because people
understand
tired.
People
understand
headaches,
broken bones,
cuts
that bleed.
Chapter Five: Quiet Violence
But they do not
understand
the quiet
violence
of waking up
every day
already
exhausted.
They do not
understand
how depression
can hollow out
a person
without leaving
a single mark
for anyone
else
to see.
They do not
understand
how anxiety
sits
in the chest
like a hand
around
the throat,
how it turns
ordinary moments
into disasters
waiting
to happen.
Chapter Six: Fingerprints
No one sees
the panic
hidden
behind stillness,
the storm
hidden
behind silence,
the way
I can sit
in a crowded room
and still
feel completely
alone.
No one sees
how many times
I rewrite
a message
before I
send it,
how many times
I almost
leave the house
then decide
I cannot
do it.
How many nights
I sit
in the car
after coming
home from work
because going
inside
feels harder
than staying
lost
for a few
more minutes.
Chapter Seven: Becoming a Stranger
There are bruises
from becoming
a stranger
to myself.
From waking up
one day
and realizing
I could not
remember
what I used
to sound
like
before
all of this.
Before
the exhaustion.
Before
the fear.
Before
I learned
how to survive
by disappearing
piece
by piece.
I miss
the person
I was
before my mind
became
a place
I feared
being alone
in.
Chapter Eight: Long Sleeves
So I wear
long sleeves
made of
practiced
smiles,
careful
words,
and the kind
of silence
that keeps
people
comfortable.
I become
the version
of myself
that causes
the least
concern,
the least
inconvenience,
the least
chance
that someone
might ask
a question
I do not
know
how to
answer.
And still,
beneath
all of it,
the bruises
remain.
Epilogue: Perfectly Fine
Sometimes
I wonder
if anyone
would notice
how hard
I am fighting
if they could
see
what lives
beneath
my skin.
If they could
see
the fingerprints
anxiety
leaves
around
my ribs,
the dark
handprints
depression
leaves
across
my back,
the invisible
fractures
running
through
every hopeful
thing
inside me.
And still,
I smile.
And still,
I say,
"I'm fine."
