The incision – mine anyway –

begins below the back of the neck

 

and ends just above the coccyx.

Surgical stitches quietly dissolve,

 

leave a thick scar – a blurred, insistent line.

As each layer of skin dies, it whispers to the next

 

the form and story of the wound.

This is how I continue, intact.

 

Yet now, as I strain to lift this

too-heavy object, the long suture ruptures

 

in my head – the scar tearing open.

You might think this visceral confession

 

only an image of mine. But you are becoming

this unstitching, this sudden opening.