You ask me,

“Where have you lived?”

As you draw circles

on my stomach

trying to make me whole.

I tell you,

“In the sweat stains

of every shirt I own.”

You look at me

like I’m trying to be poetic.

You can see

the worst and best days

depending on the patch,

tinged slightly brown,

on each of my blue shirts.

No matter how hard

I try and scrub my anxieties

from the places, they seep

I say nothing at all.