What I Bit

She said the idea like it was hers,

and I bit down on the inside of my cheek,

my teeth pressing into the soft burrs

of tissue, and I couldn't speak.

The meeting kept going.

Sarah was talking, talking,

and I was showing

nothing, while my mouth was stalking

the wound I'd just made.

I didn't feel it at first,

just the taste, the thirst

for something to focus on,

some small proof that I was there,

that something in me still cared

enough to fight.

After the meeting, the light

in the bathroom showed the mark—

a small pink stain on my napkin,

dark,

barely visible,

a small rebellion,

barely a thing at all.

But I felt it.

I pressed my tongue to it all day,

the copper taste, the small way

my body had said no

when my mouth said nothing,

when my voice betrayed

everything I'd made.