Each time you try to understand how it got there, it changes shape. This eggplant. This deep winter storm sky on your left thigh. Color of your childhood bedroom before everything in you grew too dark to see. Maybe you fell in your sleep, emerged, all without remembering. The impact of dreams. Maybe your bones grew angry at your skin. A fight toward bruising. It would be beautiful if it wasn’t about a frozen blood clot. It could be an art exhibition. Ink blot or Rorschach investigation into mind. It could be a message from your knees. Your palms try to rub it away. This curious stain. This morse code of suffer. And in the morning when you wake, with ache on your fingertips, you look toward the bruise and it is gone.