ignitesthestars
the amount of times i have been asked to write about the word violet tonight is astonishing. i stare at it, pulling to to pieces. vio-let. vi-o-let. viol-et. sooner or later, it stops looking like a word, or at least a word with any meaning.
The bruise blooms across her cheek, shamefully slow in comparison to how quick the blow was. She can track its progress in days, the way the ugly violet encroaches on her face until she thinks it might consume her.
But it doesn't. He can't - or won't - hit all of her, and the violet retreats, gives way to waves of blue and green and yellow until it is gone completely.
She wonders if she can follows it.