I had a silent moment in which I held onto my anger for longer than I should have. The house was dark and cold, like a tomb, and in a moment I grabbed at that bruised eye, that overripe plum, and it coated my hands in purple juices and left a stain on my heart.
My feelings bruised and picked over, I stood in my own way, unable to sit in my anger and acknowledge it, greet it, remind myself where it comes from. Just the opposite, I pitched that stone fruit, a square blow, between the eyes of zeroes and ones that cascade faster than the mind can see. And still it was seen, or perhaps observed, overtaken by scavenger birds, picked at in pieces and parts. One million eyes observing this deft throw of color through a window in the world. Glass breaking in the panes and shards of regret like needles in my arms, drawing me out inch by inch until I was slick with shame.
It happens so quickly. One moment you are bathed in cozy yellow evening light, and the next you are hidden beneath a veil, a fog, the twilight with no stars. Deep and rich like blood in the vessels, the color of eggplants rotting in the sun; it is this bruise, this scab-picked-over, that stays with me now, like a shadow in the late day sun.