SaidNoopur

It was my sunburn—
the one I scratched so hard it skinned.
It twitched, flared, pulsed under touch.
I felt it before I saw it.
Maybe pain had found a secret exit,
and I followed it—until it surfaced.
Then I wiped it away, erased its trace.
It hurt, right above the matching tattoos
we got last year.
I had known I was allergic to ink.

I blew on the wound,
but instead, a whistle slipped out.
I chuckled—
you would’ve laughed a lot.

Funny how I remember each second,
each minute,
when I thought I’d forgotten it all.

I rubbed the corner of my eye,
trying to keep everything intact.
A rush danced across my bottom lip.
So I bit it.

I watched blood drip to the floor,
making strange, accidental patterns.
One looked familiar.
I bent down and completed it
with the tip of my finger.

I covered the wound—it burned.
I whispered the little sweet nothings you once taught me:
“Be calm. Don’t move.
Stay. It will be okay.”

But nothing changed.
Nothing softened.
And I wonder—why didn’t we?

I stayed quiet until the cry broke free.
I plucked at my hair, then screamed.

Now, the sunburn is mine to pry.
The scar, my own to trace.
And I am willing to walk again—
this time,
without your shadows trailing behind.