Beneath the surface, bruises bloom,
A silent burst from veins’ own doom.
A purplish stain, a mark of grief,
The skin tells stories, though they’re brief.
Ruptured capillaries bleed,
A hidden wound that none may heed.
Pooling blood, it stains the skin,
A patch where trauma did begin.
At first, it’s blue with hints of red,
A blooming mark where pain was spread.
Then purple reigns, a deeper hue,
The body’s tale of what it’s been through.
But time will change this tender spot,
To green and yellow, as if forgot.
The blood recedes, absorbed within,
Fading the bruise, healing the skin.
Yet not all marks arise from fall,
Some echo illnesses that call.
Coagulation out of tune,
Medications cause the bruise too soon.
A deeper reason may reside,
Beneath the surface pain may hide.
A sign of more than just the blow,
A body’s whisper, soft yet slow.
So ecchymosis, more than bruise,
Is life’s own way to mark its dues.
In every patch, a tale unfolds,
Of fragile flesh and vessels bold.
