A Purple Goodbye

I remember

Our last kiss.

It was purple.

It happened 

The day after 

I got a black eye.

The black eye

Came from you.

Followed by the kiss.

It was a Saturday afternoon,

An ordinary day,

A day that started

Like any other.

We were at home,

I was doing laundry,

The washer started leaking.

Water ran all over the

Dirty tile floor.

(I really needed to wash that floor,

Even before the leak,

But somehow never could find the time.)

I wiped the water up 

With an old, threadbare towel,

And wondered aloud

Did I need to call a plumber?

You didn’t answer my question,

But screamed at me instead.

The wet floor and the broken washer

Somehow all my fault,

At least according to you.

You said nothing about

Calling the plumber.

Whatever went wrong

In life and in your little world

Was always my doing.

I protested,

Accidents happen,

Things break,

How was I to blame?

You were being 

A total jackass,

Pardon my French.

I think I called you that,

Or something else equally bad,

I really don’t remember.

In the heat of the moment,

Who knows what I said.

At any rate,

I said something

You didn’t like

Called you some 

Vile, evil name.

We all say

Things we later regret,

But in this case,

I think you deserved my wrath.

You reached out

And hit me

With a raised fist.

Hit me

In the face,

Just below my left eye,

My glasses flew off,

Disappearing behind the dryer,

Which stood next to that still leaking washer. 

I stood shocked and blinded.

Somehow the greatest insult of all 

The fact that I couldn’t see,

I had been blind to your true colors

For many years.

Later,

I crawled on my hands and knees,

Behind the dryer, searching and discovering

Somehow those glasses didn’t break.

Not sure how that was possible,

With the force of your punch,

But at least I could see.

The only thing that broke was my spirit,

And the blood vessels under my delicate skin,

Resulting in my black eye,

A glorious bruise.

Testament to our marriage.

I believe you knew 

Just what you were doing that day.

Your hand was not open

Not relaxed,

You had a clenched fist,

Rigid, hard.

Like you,

Unfeeling,

Judgmental.

You were

A stone cold killer

With dark brown eyes.

Or a heavyweight boxer in the ring,

Giving his opponent 

A triumphant punch,

Making her pay.

Or maybe 

It was the opposite,

You weren’t cold at all,

But red hot in your fury.

With fire in your eyes,

You knew

Exactly what you were doing.

I could see

The temper rising in you

Like a mercury thermometer.

If you were a color,

You would definitely be red.

You asked yourself,

How I could talk to you this way?

Didn’t I know my place?

After your punch,

We retreated

To our respective corners,

Though I don’t remember how

We ever fixed the washer.

The next day,

I know you felt bad 

For hitting me,

That is.

At the same time,

You still felt justified.

The leaking washer was my fault,

And how dare I talk smack to you.

Didn’t I know my place?

At least that’s what 

You probably asked yourself,

Though you didn't say it aloud.

Your fist had done

All your talking.

It wasn’t the first time.

You had hit me,

Nor would it be the last.

If I stayed with you,

That is.

I don’t know why

They call it

A black eye

Since it wasn't really black.

Instead, it was multicolored.

The blackness faded quickly,

And my eye soon turned purple.

I love you, honey.

I’m sorry.

The words fell carelessly

From your lips the next day,

And with your half baked apology.

I could tell you 

Just wanted 

Things to go back to normal,

Whatever normal was for us.

After your feeble words,

You gave me a kiss

Right on the lips,

I winced.

Though my lips were not hurt,

It was my left eye instead,

That was the injured party. 

The makeup didn’t quite 

Conceal the mark you left,

No matter how skillfully,

That makeup was applied.

I didn't want makeup.

Didn’t want to hear your words,

Didn’t want to feel your touch.

Both only brought me pain.

Your honey tainted words,

Somehow always tasted bitter.

And that kiss,

You surely believed

It a sweet kiss,

A kiss of forgiveness,

A solemn promise,

It’ll never happen again.

I didn’t taste the sweetness.

And to remind myself

Of the lingering pain

I bit my lip till it bled,

Knowing I would never feel

Your lips touch mine ever again.

It was our last kiss.

I could stand no more.

The blood started out red,

Then faded to a deep purple.

Your words

And the blood

Both falling from lips,

Were sickly sweet,

Metallic.

They tasted purple.

The same color as my eye.

Bruises and bloody lips eventually go away,

But I learned a painful lesson,

Represented by a color

For purple

Paints a vivid picture

Of women everywhere.

Ask Alice Walker.

She knows.

We women deserve the best.

Pride and promise, not pain.

We deserve our purple.

Women royal, we are.

Queens all,

In ancient times,

Only we wore

The sacred purple.

In modern times,

Aren’t we all still

Royal queens,

Though we may dwell

In low places.

We drag behind us

Heavy fur robes,

Clutched tightly

Around our shoulders,

Those robes worth

Their mauve shaded

Weight in gold.

We deserve the best,

To wear a crown,

With that royal purple robe.

Sometimes that crown 

Is thorny,

Sometimes gold,

But it still rests

Above the deep purple.

Our flowing robes

Stained with crimson blood,

From those non-purples

Who beat us down.

Stained from the children

We push

Triumphantly from our loins,

Giving a mighty battle cry

As they enter this purple world.

Our tormentors may

Beat us 

With fists, words,

Actions, slaps,

Pokes and prods.

And keep hitting us with

Sharp jabs of abuse,

Physical, mental,

Emotional knockout punches.

Until that crimson moment

Turns into a last kiss,

Red blood

Mixes with blue

Veined heartache tracks.

Bruises,

Fading memories,

Black eyes 

Turn to purple

The colors 

Swirl together.

Sometimes dark,

Sometimes light,

Tinged lilac,

Fresh scented springs

Of blooming hope.

We wear 

Our purple proudly.

Though we may,

Bite our lips till they bleed,

A coagulated sign of life.

Reminding us that

Events and people,

Both good and bad,

Have created 

Our life palette,

Mixing fiery reds

And peaceful blues.

The artist has formed us,

Uniquely,

Creatively.

We are it.

Both artist and creation,

Life itself.

A living, breathing, 

Wounded purple.

A sisterhood bleeding, 

Pumping life’s blood,

Flowing sticky and warm,

Over all that is female.

Your last kiss

Both soothed

And tormented me.

Pain, power

Passion, promise.

Purple.