Sometim—
No. Many times,
I stand a thumb’s-width behind my eyes
and watch the rest of me
continue out of habit,
routine.
Not broken.
Not guilty.
Nothing so theatrical.
Only the quiet fact
of being present for a leaving.
A hand finds the latch.
A mouth replies to my name.
The chest keeps time.
The body, dutiful,
honors appointments I do not remember making.
I’m reminded of a word,
“Autopsy.”
To see oneself,
with one’s own eye.
Not for blood—
for method.
The lamp.
The steel.
The patience
of a thing laid open
because surface-level guessing
failed.
I do not mean death.
I mean her colder cousin:
to witness form without function,
and function without meaning,
without ownership;
to watch the eyes go on seeing
and feel no claim;
to hear my own voice—
arrive half-strange—
at my own ear.
Then comes the old command:
“Suffer on.”
As if hurt were proof.
As if endurance
could turn scattered bones
into soldered-skeleton, stitched-together-soul.
But pain is only pain
unless it gathers
what has come apart.