New Jeanland

I ache for clarity
but would rather
bleed quietly than ask.

In the mirror, I practice indifference:
shoulders easy,
eyes unhooked from the past,
face arranged into careful stillness.

Outside, the night keeps moving.

I line up the moments
you didn’t stay.
Call it evidence.
Stack them neatly.
Make them mean something.

Nothing resolves.

The pieces remain pieces.
I only become better
at carrying them
without letting them show.

No one notices
how much effort it takes
to keep a wound
looking organized.