Undiagnosed

It doesn’t bruise, this kind of pain,

no purple bloom, no crimson stain.

No cast to sign, no bandage bright,

no fever glow, no searing light.

It nests beneath the skin, unseen,

a quiet howl, a constant keen.

It doesn’t beg, it doesn’t scream,

it just dissolves me, seam by seam.

Doctors shrug and lovers leave.

Friends grow tired. They don’t believe.

Because I walk, because I smile,

because I fake it for a while.

But every step’s a sharpened thread,

a splintered echo in my head.

A weightless world that weighs me down,

a circus tent that makes me drown.

Some mornings start with silent dread,

a war fought wholly in my bed.

And though no blood has hit the floor,

I lose the fight and start once more.

You’d never know, you’d never see

the ghost that lives inside of me.

Not broken bone, but soul decay,

a storm that will not go away.

So if I flinch or fade or fall,

it’s not for show, it’s not at all.

It’s just this pain without a name,

that lives and breathes and burns the same.

A poem I wrote to remind me…