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.