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?

joy:

a dangling carrot.

i lurch, grasp. 

air, mockingly thin.

and this is that thing I do.

give 

just enough,

to make it hurt

when I am exposed

for the nothingness

that I truly am.

there used to be

a winter cyclone 

in my heart;

so ready to sing

the fury of its love.

I wrapped my hands 

round my throat,

choked it of life.

I soon forgot

what it meant

to have a voice.

now

my heart:

an empty auditorium.

too big

to be this hollow.

drop a pin.

I still remember

when laughter echoed,

like light that danced 

from wall to wall.

and I remember

when passion thrummed,

when caring

wasn’t danger.

now there’s dust

suspended 

in time—

nowhere to go. everywhere

to hide.

there— clamping, yet again.

round my throat,

hidden hands,

strangling 

the words

that fight 

to reach my tongue—

begging me

to fill this hall

with something—

anything—

other than the sound 

of silence.

still,

i remain voiceless.