You: Broken Blood Vessels

I think that you’re the prettiest thing when the vessels bust underneath your skin, and I don’t know why, because I don’t find bruises attractive on anyone else, only you, it’s always been only you, and now every time I see a bruise, any bruise, I see you, too because I’ve associated you with them, all of them with you and your skin—God, your skin that’s absolutely perfect when there’s a purple spot on your shoulder or a blue one on your wrist or a yellow one on your shin, and I’m not very sure why it’s you because I only know you from you telling me twenty on pump two or you buying a pack of Skittles or you letting me keep the change, all I know is that you bruise kind of easily from what I can tell and I think that’s forever beautiful, and apparently someone else felt the same because they found your body, extremely pale and eyes wide open, in a poorly dug grave twenty yards away from the interstate; no clothes, bruises thrown and painted and splashed all over, and as sad as I was to see you go, I couldn’t help but think you were at your most beautiful there, all purple and blue like that.