In the bathroom, you sighed as you applied
bio-oil onto the red and white
lines that brand my inner forearm.
Wrapping my arm in cling film,
you said, with forced optimism,
I want your scars to disappear
so that you can wear short-sleeved tops when it’s hot
to which I replied,
I want to disappear
so that the sadness stops.
“Nothing,” I lied, and sighed.
We sigh a lot these days;
sighs of frustration and exasperation,
not contentment or admiration;
you may want to fix my outside
but we both know that the real damage lies inside
and so we sigh;
heavy breaths that reiterate that you have tried,
and tried, so many times,
that remind me that I am still alive,
that aren’t the good kind, aren’t the right kind,
that have no place in a happy home,
that reverberate through walls and bone;
sighs that change absolutely nothing,
nothing at all
and still we sigh.