I arrived barefoot
tongue heavy with borrowed syntax
eyes trained on the flicker between gestures
the way a hand hesitates before reaching
the way silence folds itself into a question.

I mistook bruises for constellations
mapped them across the skin like ancient routes
each one a pilgrimage
each one a failed translation.

I thought pain had grammar
that longing could be conjugated
into something less feral.

the heart is not a scroll.
it does not unroll neatly.
it bleeds through the margins
smudges the ink
laughs at the scholar in me
who still believes in clarity.

I touched someone once
and felt their grief like static
a hum beneath the ribs
a Morse code of everything unsaid.

I tried to decode it
but the symbols kept shifting
love became hunger
hunger became apology
apology became a door
I could not open.

I am still learning
that some hieroglyphs are meant to be lived
not read.
that some wounds speak in tongues
only the body understands.
that to be human
is to misinterpret
and keep interpreting
until the ache becomes a kind of fluency.