I'm not a person to you,
my subtleties are lost in a constellation of tally marks,
the strikes against me in your mental map of our universe.

My buttons can’t be hidden from you you’re the one
who tied them so loosely to the cuffs of my sleeves
and the bulk of my 20 cent words form the change in the linings of your pockets,
where my hands used to be.

The pads of your fingers find the freckles on the nape of my neck but the worn feeling of you thumb prints against my pulse reminds me
the pigmentation is no longer cute to you
just another imperfection for the list..

which is running through the front of my brain
like your hands used to run through the creases
of my smile.

It’s the poetry to the empty screen your face used to fill
that reminds me some pills are better off untaken,
and that sometimes empty yellow bottles are filled with the hope that is left behind by the promise
that sickness requires it to be refilled again.