Bruises are loud. They say embarrassing things in public. Bruises are blabber mouths. They gossip. A lot.
They aren't attractive like eyes, with colors all melding in a perfect palette. They aren't political like tattoos, not usually anyway. Although, they could be gotten from a down and dirty protest march.
Bruises sometimes lie to our brains, who tell our mouths to repeat the story. Often, this doesn't turn out well for any part of the body.
My bruises are true. And brave, oh so valiant. Every week and sometimes twice, my bruises proclaim to my feet that they may walk. Every week and sometimes twice, my bruises tell my immune cells to sit down and shut up, and to, for heaven's sake, stop picking on those joints.
I know they get a bad rap, and mostly, rightly so. But my bruises mean a lot to me. Just one look at them and I know that all the rest of me will be just plain fine.