Bruised
I love the hate in your voice.
The vein that protrudes from your neck like a striking cobra.
The vast array of hues in your eyes.
Who knew there were that many shades of red?
So caught up in the suspense of the moment that you don’t notice your voice jumping an octave.
The pitch resounding like a fist making contact with my face.
Just because there aren’t any marks, does not mean I am not bruised.
But still…
I love the hate in your voice.
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