A Purple Kiss Goodbye

I remember,

Our last kiss.

It was purple.

It happened

The day before

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 it,

But somehow never could find the time.)

I wiped the water up

With an old towel,

And wondered aloud

Why the washer was leaking.

Did we need to call a plumber?

You didn’t answer the question,

But screamed at me instead.

The wet floor and the broken washer

Were all my fault,

At least according to you.

You said nothing about the dirty floor

Or 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 might have 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.

I was wearing my glasses,

They flew off my face

And disappeared behind the dryer,

Which stood next to that still leaking washer.

Somehow the glasses didn’t break.

Not sure how that was possible,

The only thing that broke was my spirit,

And the blood vessels that ran under my

Delicate skin,

Resulting in my black eye.

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,

Cold, judgemental.

You were

A stone hard killer

With dark brown eyes.

Or a heavy weight

Boxer in the ring,

Giving his opponent

A triumphant knock out punch,

Making her pay.

Or maybe

It was the opposite,

You weren’t cold at all,

But red hot in your fury.

You acted in rage,

With fire

In your eyes,

Though you knew

Exactly

What you were doing.

I could see

The temper rise in you.

If you wore a color,

It would definitely be red.

How could your wife

Talk to you this way?

Didn’t she know her place?

I know you felt bad,

Pause, insert long space,

Later.

But at the time,

In that moment when it happened,

The trigger that caused

The act

Was me.

You were justified.

At least that’s what

You probably told yourself.

It wasn’t the first time.

Nor would it be the last.

This I knew,

Deep in my heart.

That is,

If I were to stay with you.

I learned that the painful way.

I don’t know why

They always call it

A black eye.

It faded,

Turned purple really.

You made your standard apology.

You gave me a kiss

Right on the lips.

I winced,

Though my lips were not hurt,

It was my right eye instead,

That was the injured party.

The makeup didn’t conceal it,

No matter how skillfully

applied.

I didn’t want your touch.

Anywhere,

It only brought me pain.

I love you, honey.

I’m sorry.

The words fell carelessly

From your lips.

What you failed to realize was

That I had

Heard it all before.

Honey tainted words,

That somehow

Always tasted bitter.

Along with your words,

You gave me a kiss.

What you surely felt

Was a sweet kiss,

A kiss of forgiveness,

A solemn promise,

It’ll never happen again.

I didn’t tell you,

It was our last kiss.

It was a kiss goodbye.

The bitterness lingered,

I didn’t taste the honey,

Only the pain.

To remind myself

Of that pain,

I bit my lip till it bled.

The blood started out

Flowing red,

Then faded to a deep purple.

No, I didn't taste the honey all,

Not even a trace.

Instead,

Your words,

And the blood

That fell from our

Respective lips,

Tasted sickly sweet,

Metallic,

False.

They tasted purple.

The same color as my eye.

For ...

The color

Purple

paints a picture

Of women everywhere.

Alice Walker surely knew

What she was doing

When she wrote

“The Color Purple.”

Women royal, we are.

Queens all,

In ancient times,

Only we wore

The sacred purple.

But, 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.

Maybe sometimes a thorny crown,

But still gold

Perched o'er 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

Into this purple world.

Our tormentors may

Beat us purple

With fists, words,

Actions, slaps,

Pokes and prods.

Hitting us with

Sharp jabs of abuse,

Physical, mental,

Emotional knock out punches.

Until that crimson moment

Turns into

A last purple kiss,

Goodbye.

Red blood traces,

Mixes with blue

Veined heartache tracks.

Bruises,

Fading memories,

Black eyes

Turn to purple.

The bruised colors

Swirl together

In a glorious color.

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

Blood sign of life.

Reminding us that

Events and people,

Both good and bad,

Have created

Our life's palette,

Mixing fiery reds

And peaceful blues.

The artist has formed us,

Uniquely,

Creatively.

We are it.

Purple.

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 and promise.

A purple kiss,

Goodbye.