Bruise

Miniature butterfly,
wings of purple blooming
either side of black pinprick,
this morning's puncture.
Another blood sample.
I've always bruised easily;
now, salmon pink pills
make the blood cruise
through my veins,
every knock to my flesh
magnified, my body
a 3D landscape
of heathery hillocks,
olive groves, chanterelles.
Not that I mind.
I've always had a soft spot
for these livid
talismans of pain
held just beneath
the surface,
like drowned faces
pressing at ice.