What I Am

"Is it a scar?" she asked me straight,

and I stood there, hesitate.

I didn't know what hurt more—

that she thought I was broken to the core,

or that I had no word for what I am,

no way to explain my mark.

It's not a bruise that healed up wrong.

It's the map I've carried all along.

Darker in winter, fades in spring.

I never chose this marking thing.

I couldn't make her understand

that some things you can't brand

with a single name or word.

That some marks are absurd

in how they just exist—

neither scar nor mist.

So I said nothing. Kept my peace.

Felt the question never cease,

felt her eyes move away fast,

kept the thing that's unsaid, vast,

pressed against my skin,

waiting for the next to ask me what I've been.