Bump

A poem

Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash

There is a bump inside my lip.

  Although it sounds like a disease
  I assure you, it is not.
  Unless you are one of those
  who do consider love a disease;
  An addiction.
  Then, you're probably right.
  My bump is a disease.
  It was made during a fall into love
  To prove how strong it is.
  A reckless decision;
  Though it was created through flight
  Alas not triggered by a kiss
  But by a bad decision
  Of the boy behind the wheel.

  I went flying then;
  Thankfully I only tasted dirt mixed in with blood
  And I kept my life and the bump,
  but not my love.

  The next time my bump was touched was indeed by lips, and
other sensitive skin parts,
  in love, and in pleasure.
  It was also touched by knuckles,
  hard against the softness of my lips slamming against my
teeth.

  I'll say, the bump was between a rock and a hard place.

  The kind of rock that loses to paper and wins over
scissors.

Still, it was love.
  I get to carry this bump every day
  caress it,
  beautify it,
  sleep with it.

  The boys next to me, kissing me, loving me, can't even
feel it.

  Can't even see it.
  The damage runs invisible but oh so evident to my senses
  that I insist on kissing boys
  in hope the bruising will be healed
  and the bump will be no more.