My skeleton in the closet

Circled through my mind through

Every first glass of wine

And every first kiss.

 

When do I tell him?

 

First or second or third date became never

Until the relationship faltered and jolted

Because he sensed trust issues and maybe something more

 

Leaning on his shoulder the scars

Of harassment and injury slipped

By easily enough but not the misdiagnosis

of bipolar or the panic I feel

when a clump of hair falls out

or even the innocent

fact that my body cannibalizes its own muscle

and my energy is a ticking grenade

wearing thin

 

Or the real diagnosis of

Future diabetes and improbable children…

No, I think that will wait.