who my body belonged to

Come in.
I won’t ask what you survived.
I won’t ask what you left behind.
But if you want
you can place 

your weight, 

your wait

here.
Next to mine.

I drew this page from within.

From the surgical table.

From the dream.

From a moment 

I didn't know

if

my body beloned

to the sickness

or to the system

or to the silence.

I drew it.

I remember every line.
The way I trembled at the edge of the breast...
not from fear
but from knowing it might be looked at
by eyes that have never seen a body

Not even their own

I made the black line across the boy’s face
because I knew he would never be whole again
just like me.

I am the one who wrote
“tell me, my love, what can I do?”

a thousand times in the background.

A glitch in language.

Because I knew
there would never be an answer
that didn’t require a wound.

I drew the pack of pills on the skin
because that’s what they do
they put the prescription inside the girl
and call it care.
They rename pain into dosages
and wonder why my lines won’t smile.

I recognize myself now, yes.
the girl who made that page
and didn’t know if she’d live enough
to explain it.

I’ve laid my scars on the page.

Not to impress you.

But to say:

Here’s my wound. 

Here’s a mirror in which I can be seen.

There is no front row.

There is only the circle.

There is only the warmth of

“me too,

maybe differently.”

So take your time.

Bring your breath.

You don’t have to understand the whole thing.

Just feel one line

just feel that there is

two chairs and a fire.

So if you’ve been holding something

a sketch, a sentence, a memory in its first skin

and you want to place it

into this fire,

quietly,

you can...