what the body tells on itself

In the waiting room,

the woman kept turning her head.

Left. Right. Left.

Checking. Always checking.

I wasn't supposed to be watching,

but the back of her neck

told me everything

her face was trying to hide.

The small hairs there,

the fine ones that don't matter,

moving when she breathed—

sharp intakes,

held for a beat,

released too slowly.

A line of sweat

at the hairline.

One thin line

that said:

I am not okay

I am pretending to be okay

but my body knows the difference.

The dentist called her name.

She stood up.

I watched the muscles along her spine

arrange themselves back into order,

watched her pull her hair down

to cover what she'd been showing,

and I thought:

we spend so much time

hiding the back of ourselves

from people we're facing,

not realizing

that's exactly where

we leak.