My Body is a Text

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Why did you never mention the scars rippling across my
milky arms? You didn’t ask about the sharp vertebrae
leaving a trail of bruises down my back. Did you not
care enough to see despair engulf my pupils?
As a child, I learned to swallow the sad words,
the hard words, and force them into my stomach.
I still gave you signs.
I painted questions on my canvas.
And your silence gave me every answer I needed.

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