You don’t need to tell the doctor why

your heart beats at 95 bpm despite

your quietude or

how the rose

once dried

lost its coral petals to dust.

You don’t need to tell the doctor how

laughter used to come unbidden and often

like a bright stream of rainbow fish

catching sun’s rays

til darkness spread her feathery fingers

blocking out light like a single word

can.

You don’t need to tell the doctor who

it was, left you crumpled and derelict

in throes of grief beside

the memory it was not always

this cruel or this bitter

tasting.

You don’t need to tell the doctor if

recovery is lost, for he guages truth

written across your face as any

horror shall permanently stain

an indelible fingerprint of

why

you say nothing and if you say nothing

it doesn’t exist

you can go on pretending

with your crossed legs and empty arms

the barren effigy of loss

rending its blades

behind your eyes as

you stare forward facing

a mannequin to your own life

insufficiently stuffed

to hold yourself up

straight