a receding blotch

Superstitiously, I look at the fading bruise on my arm. It doesn’t hurt at all. It looks pretty bad.

This is a metaphor for all of it.

After each soporific round, I’m better able to navigate from one end of the room to the other. After each round I look at that bruise and see it diminish just a bit.

When it is gone, I’ll be able to walk again without thinking.

The yellow is gone. The blue isn’t so much. The angry purple is fading. I am sure I am getting better.

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