I won’t tell you about my scars-

how their jaggedly white pinch surfaced my skin. I won’t tell you

how I had to wrap myself in my low thread count sheets 

to stop the clot-free flood from flooding my room.

I won’t tell you how pain snuggled beside me on my mattress and

squeezed me until I couldn’t breathe. I won’t tell you 

how I clenched my teeth

until cracks ran sharply along my gums and

up to my chapped lips. I won’t tell you

that the bottle stopped burning and

my cheeks began to cherry and

sweeten-

until they were perfectly ripe for plucking.

I drank from the timeless bottle.

My stomach began to refuse.

Pain sent me outside.

I didn’t puke.

I threw up the truth.

Honesty stung my throat.

I won’t tell you how I sat in the grass,

sloppily throwing my limp body onto the ground. I won’t tell you

about the bruise

that purpled on my thigh after I fell. I won’t tell you

that I dreamed

about diving into the sky until I was so deep-

so deep-

that my limbs created constellations. I won’t tell you

how I swam through the endless air and

pain became only a blurry spot on my lawn and

how I didn’t stop swimming until an ocean was below me-

where I could see my faint reflection

dancing upon its surface. I won’t tell you

about my hiding spot between

Orion’s Belt and the Big Dipper.

If I told you, then the whole world would find out and

when everyone knew the truth they’d kick me out of the sky. And

I

would

fall.

I won’t tell you all the bones that broke

when I landed. I won’t tell you

that the rhythmic waves rocked me back together, slowly

rolling me over and

over until I was back in one piece.

I won’t tell you all about the seawater I drank, or

how the grainy salt slashed my throat raw. I won’t tell you

that I swallowed the whole ocean, or

that I spat it back out

watching fish dive from my lips.

I won’t tell you how I wanted them to stay.

I won’t tell you how I floated on the surface

hoping a current would take me away

from the crashing waves,

the gritty sand

the glass bottle.

I won’t tell you how I hated

feeling that burning liquid run down my throat, and

how I wanted

strong, warm hands to strangle its neck and

shatter it into forgotten pieces. I won’t tell you

that everyone multiplied by two and

the earth began to quake.

But how I wished for those strong, warm hands to pick me up and

cradle my ragged body

until my lids drooped and

the earth steadied.

I won’t tell you anything because I wouldn’t know what to say.