Bones: A Tribute to My Bruises
My name is Debi Nafis and I am a walking bruise. I tried counting this morning as I stared down at my feet instead of up at the half-written essay lurking on my computer screen. I got to four on my right leg, three on my left leg and another on my side marking the highest point of my left hipbone before I admitted defeat. I’m never without at least a dozen or so brown- and mustard- and plum- and brick-colored blotches mapping out my skeleton on the surface of my skin for all the world to see.
It’s not that I’m getting smacked around at home or participating in contact sports of the violent variety; it’s not even that I’m all that clumsy, though I seem to run into walls and doorframes a bit more often than the average girl might. The sneaky bastards seem to pop up of their own volition, sneaking out under cover of darkness to set up camp beneath my epidermis and greet me in the mirror each morning.
Each bruise reveals my internal framework, pinpoints a protruding bone. They’re hidden behind a white curtain of skin and blubber, but if you get close enough, you can feel every one. A lifetime of hiding behind a book has left me completely lacking in any muscle not necessary for survival; thus each bone is clearly defined under its soft blanket of fat.
Radius. Ulna. Humerus. Clavicle. Scapula. I don’t need Gray’s Anatomy. Pisiform. Metacarpals. Phalanges. I can sing “Dem Bones” up and down my body. All the knobs of my vertebrae. Sternum. Pelvis. And then come the ribs: true, false and floating. When I run out of fingers and toes to count on, I can start on my ribs.
I’m a stealth bomber. They never see it coming… the curvy chick with the D-cups isn’t supposed to be all knees and elbows and pointy, pointy chin. The bruises are battle scars: I’m a danger to others and my self. My ankles collide with each other far more often than seems physiologically possible. The ridges of the ribs down my back smack violently into the wood of my desk chair with alarming regularity.
And without fail the bruises appear, brown and mustard and plum. Like autumn leaves. Or a game of Clue.
It’s not that I’m getting smacked around at home or participating in contact sports of the violent variety; it’s not even that I’m all that clumsy, though I seem to run into walls and doorframes a bit more often than the average girl might. The sneaky bastards seem to pop up of their own volition, sneaking out under cover of darkness to set up camp beneath my epidermis and greet me in the mirror each morning.
Each bruise reveals my internal framework, pinpoints a protruding bone. They’re hidden behind a white curtain of skin and blubber, but if you get close enough, you can feel every one. A lifetime of hiding behind a book has left me completely lacking in any muscle not necessary for survival; thus each bone is clearly defined under its soft blanket of fat.
Radius. Ulna. Humerus. Clavicle. Scapula. I don’t need Gray’s Anatomy. Pisiform. Metacarpals. Phalanges. I can sing “Dem Bones” up and down my body. All the knobs of my vertebrae. Sternum. Pelvis. And then come the ribs: true, false and floating. When I run out of fingers and toes to count on, I can start on my ribs.
I’m a stealth bomber. They never see it coming… the curvy chick with the D-cups isn’t supposed to be all knees and elbows and pointy, pointy chin. The bruises are battle scars: I’m a danger to others and my self. My ankles collide with each other far more often than seems physiologically possible. The ridges of the ribs down my back smack violently into the wood of my desk chair with alarming regularity.
And without fail the bruises appear, brown and mustard and plum. Like autumn leaves. Or a game of Clue.