My therapist says the words I’ve carried
might not fit me after all.

And I don’t know who I am without the illnesses I’ve been certain of.

They were a soft alibi, not to excuse the harm, but to explain it.
a small cushion between me and the truth.

Without them, every bruise I’ve left behind
belongs only to me, and I am terrified that the truth is this:
I was never sick...
I was just cruel.