Palm Print

The indentations on my thumbnail

are still there, crescent moons

dug deep from where I pressed it

into my palm, hard,

while you spoke.

Every word you said,

a new layer of wrong,

a fresh coat of paint

over rot, and I just

nodded, smiled a little,

swallowed the bitter pill.

I wanted to say,

this isn't working.

I wanted to scream,

*you're hurting yourself,

and me, by proxy, by just being you

like this.*

But the words stayed

behind my teeth, a tight fist

in my throat, unable to break free.

Now, on the page, they stretch out,

unfurling, not for you,

but for me. To see them

solid. To believe

they exist.