After the Diagnosis

by Clare Labrador

My sisters lend their hands—paperweight
to keep my forehead from scattering.
We are all in the living room waiting
for the sadness to surge up my throat.
Mother had taken the overnight bus
and arrived at my doorstep too early;
I do not know how to explain
this headache seeping into my mind.

We hear the familiar silence at the end
of phone calls I rejected pretending
I was busy while I was busy
trying to get out of bed.
We throw out the furniture to search
for fingers I had broken off
keeping my bedroom door closed.

No one is surprised to see me scattered;
I’ve been cutting myself into parts for years.

Find my throat at the back of the freezer,
my feet under the swimming pool,
my stomach all over the bathroom floor.
I’ve shed my scalp on pillows.
Mother collects the scales and stitches
each flake back into my skull.

Maybe I should stay on the couch, safe
from a world that wants to swallow me whole,

or maybe I dream of having more than this—
the weight of my chest to hold me down.
I count the pills in my cabinet, each one
a promise at the end of some parted sea.
Tomorrow, we’ll find the rest of my body.
I’ll slip into my bones and wear my skin.