pain,
my mom always said,
is the body's way
of telling me
that something's wrong.
but
I can tell her to put the icepack
back
in the fridge.
she can't see
my dull ache
that I keep for myself
to hum inside me like
kryptonite.
waiting.
I have a wrecking ball
close to my chest
where I can listen to the sound
of my bones
crumbling inside me
while my heart seeps
through the cracks
of a shallow grave,
defeated.
something is wrong,
my body is telling me,
but I can't mend it.
I listen to the low hum
of waiting.
