This isn’t confession.
It’s habit. It’s maintenance.
I open a New Document because that’s what I do,
not because there’s anything left to say.
I tap out lines like I’m checking a pulse,
making sure the numbness isn’t total.
Every poem is a stalling tactic,
an excuse for why I haven’t changed.
I call it honesty, but it’s theater.
I call it art, but it’s camouflage.
Pain re-phrased, shame rearranged.
Not a wound, just a watermark.
The truth is:
Every leper bears his poem,
hidden like a wound.
I am no exception.