if I could bleed the past
and spill it from my veins,
these scars would tally
each memory erased.
but it’s an impossible thing.
you tried to make sense
of the scars
only you could see.
like going to the nurse
and swearing
you’re on the edge of death
and her insisting
you’re fine.
that she ran “every test.”
but there’s a burning
somewhere deep—
somewhere
only you can see.
next— your mother’s palm.
wise. knowing.
surely it can glean the truth.
you expect her to say something
like, “you’re sweltering,”
or, “you’re frozen.”
anything other
than those lies—
but she swears nothing’s wrong.
even tells you, go—
sleep it off.
so you accept
that the world’s gone insane.
how can you prove
the depth of your pain?