“I’m so sorry, I can’t come tonight,
I’m just not feeling quite all right.”
(The throb. A new one.
Hot, under the arm.
Metal-sharp.
God, not again.)
“Oh no, I’m fine, it’s nothing bad,
It’s just a busy week I’ve had.”
(Busy.
Changing the dressing.
The dampness.
The sting of antiseptic.
Always the hiding.)
“I’m just so tired, let’s just sleep,
My energy is buried deep.”
(A touch.
So warm.
My skin crawls.
Not there.
The leakage.
The raw, hidden map.
The flinch.
The shame.)
“I’ll be right out, just give me space,
I need to quickly wash my face.”
(The reflection.
A stranger’s eyes.
A “mourning held in silence.”)
“See? I am fine. It’s passed, I’m clear.
There’s nothing left for you to fear.”
(The performance ends.
The smile is set.
This silence is… required.
This shame is… normal.
How does one even begin to speak?)
.