hers is tattooed
his bruised

A thousand people pass
what bruises do they hide,
where and what shape
origin of clumsiness
or pursuit of love,
rescuing a basketball
for a stranger’s children;
or receipt of cruelty

two friends sit
cigarillos in hand
outside in the cold.
smoke. and laugh.
I imagine the taste
and the touch of her fingers.

leaning on the window
I feel my own bruises
and the immensity
of a million fellow lives
I cannot comprehend


0 Responses to “bruises”

  1. Leave a Comment

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s


This blog is the collection of my poetry and prose, in chronological order from most recent to oldest.

Constructive critique is actively encouraged!

I am usually singing words as well as writing them, and make lots of other art. You can find me & my other art at any of the below links. x

Latest quick update…

Error: Twitter did not respond. Please wait a few minutes and refresh this page.





All content on this blog © Rebecca Tilley, 2003-present

%d bloggers like this: