my scab: a poem (scroll down)

It sits underneath my bottom lip
like a bug;
like a tick,
whose blood-engorged-back faces you,
if you are looking at me from the front.

It is big,
and it is infected,
and it cracks open if I smile too hard.

I've been running from it all week,
like it's a bad memory from my childhood.
And I tilt my head down,
and angle angle it inward,
so people can't see it.
Because people can look at it,
and tell
that something isn't right inside me:
they can tell,
that I can't just leave things be.