Here I stand
before weary faces.
A jury, waiting for closure.
They’ve all heard it before
.
I tell it once more,
but not in full.
Not the main thing
That would leave the room
silent.
My voice shakes
Not from fear,
not from grief
but from bending words
so they won't cut too deep.
I clear my throat,
and try again
to make them understand:
How I was hurt.
How I hurt in return.
How neither of us
walked away with clean hands.
But my voice dilutes in tears,
and I feel their exhaustion
Settle on my skin.
They don't want another retelling,
They want a conclusion.
But all I have are questions
knotted in my throat
like a swallowed scream.
Somehow,
I know the ending like muscle memory:
How my hands always knew
where to reach for you in the dark,
even when you weren’t reaching back...
But knowing is different
from accepting
what was fated from the start.
I am still looking for words
that won't make my gums bleed.
So I retrace the string,
tugging gently
at the edges of the past.
I search from the beginning:
The first time I chose silence
instead of asking questions
I didn’t want the answer to.
And yet
every time I get close,
the world tilts,
My gut twists,
My sight blackens
the way it does
before impact,
before something inside me
decides it would rather
not remember after all.
Each time I go back
the past sharpens,
details surface
like ink in water.
I see it clearer
than I want to,
How I turned
waiting into devotion.
Still I replay
a skipping record
needle scratching
over the same old wound
a jagged ache
spelling out:
JULY.
Finally, the jury asks "How did it end?"
I cannot say yet.
April 1st, 2025
