does it matter that the morning sky
shades the deepening purple of a bruise,
the dark hue I saw in her eyes
just before she knocked me to the floor?
does it matter that I think the moment beautiful
when the clouds lower to cover night’s regret,
the sigh she would follow with a kiss
before she told me that nothing really happened?
does it matter that I do not care for the sun’s bright light
because she threw me into the shadows?
it does not, not at all.
I was born in the darkest hour.
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