oops
poke.
it starts small.
a finger finds that soft place
beneath my ribs—
where hope
used to sleep—
and presses.
just once.
poke.
again.
not hard.
just enough
to remind me
i’m soft
in all the wrong places.
“quit it.”
poke.
“stop—”
but there’s no one
there
to stop.
then it digs.
holds.
moves with me.
of course.
it lives here.
it grins.
press.
press.
press.
until i bruise.
deep tissue.
quiet damage.
the ache learns to whisper:
- they didn’t text: you don’t matter.
- they’re busy: you’re too much.
- you speak: you’re extra.
- they drift: you know that, right?
worst part—
it sounds like me.
and now-–
it’s everywhere.
a bruise
on my heart.
but inside out.
throbbing.
i feel—
lack.
it doesn’t hurt
to touch.
just
to be.
walking outside
wearing soul
on skin.
every smile—
too fast.
every pause—
a verdict.
every quiet—
another door
shut.
throb.
the bruise.
not fresh,
but blooming.

not metaphor,
but necrosis.
a slow kiss–
born of
betrayal
viral
self
violence
evidence
of every time
i was
too much
and no one
said so.

a knot.
a clot.
a sore.
a scream
without sound
reverberating,
settling
like rust.

quiet.
slow.
every day
less
of
me,
just
bruise.

a lesion
on reality.
a sign that
all is
not
well.
i know.
i know.
you’re too much.
always have been.

maybe i’m
what the universe
can’t quite
hold.
maybe that’s
why it pressed
so hard.
grin.

then again–
i guess
existing is
a problem.

like
a virus
the universe
purges.
a mistake
corrected.
wait—

friendly
fire?
hush now.
it’s easier
if you don’t move.

oops.