I feel this burning sensation
Not because it’s hot on my skin;
I feel it elsewhere—
in my lungs
In my eyes
In my throat
Why?
I have so much to say
But little comes out
I want to declare how much love I have for you
But this burning only stops me from speaking out
So I pick up that sharpie from my desk and drag it across my skin
To feel the burning sensation of alcohol elsewhere
so that I can be heard.
Seen.
Noticed.
I look to my desk where I found my sharpie
But the sharpie was still sitting there
Now I feel this new sense of burning on my skin
But it was never the sharpie
It was the burning sensation of a cold blade.
Is this what it takes to be seen?