Here I stand
before weary faces
a jury,
waiting for closure.
They’ve heard it all before.
I tell it once more,
but not in full.
Not the main idea
That would leave the room silent.
Whispering. Cautious omitting.
Eyes shifting,
waiting for me
to swallow back the truth.
My voice still shakes.
Not from fear,
not from grief
but from bending the truth
so it doesn’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 clean.
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.
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 ill-fated from the beginning.
I haven’t found the words
that don't make my gums bleed.
So I retrace the string,
tugging gently
at the edges of the past
picking at the wound
just to make sure
it still hurts
the way I remember.
Because I haven’t known
anything else since.
I search from the beginning:
the first wrong turn,
the first time I told myself
“He gets it.
He’s gonna change.”
The first time I chose silence
instead of asking
the questions
I didn’t want the answer to.
And yet
every time I get too close,
the world tilts,
My voice quivers,
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 the past sharpens,
details surface
like ink in water.
I see it clearer
than I want to:
How I turned
waiting into devotion,
absence into proof.
Still, I keep going over it
like a skipping record,
the needle scratching
over the same old wound
a jagged thing
that still aches,
spelling out:
July.
The jury asks:
“How did it end?”
I can’t admit it yet.
April 1st, 2025
