Bruise
Nothing’s the matter these days.
I’m enjoying the silence, the sunlight
yellowing the room like summer,
and this bowl of strawberries,
cold, bright red, and all for me. A reward
after a season of relentless rain,
the ceiling dripping, the bucket threatening
to pour over before I could finish scrubbing
clean his muddy footsteps towards the door.
You’d think you were safe
as long as you remained in this room, this box
with its breathing holes, clutching
a bruised heart. Gone cold, bright with pain,
all for him.
What’s the matter? Nothing,
you tell him. And you smile,
you smile because
that’s what you were supposed to do.
Today, I’ve closed the door behind him,
taken the bucket of rain, and watered the plants.
Such is dignity. To lie
on a bed for two,
full of the sweetness of unbruised fruit.
Katrina Madarang is a writer from Manila, Philippines. She attended the MA Creative Writing program at the University of the Philippines before deciding to take a break.
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