But We Are Not This

I tell myself

We are not this body.

This is not my pain.

But then I see your bare scalp.

The scar snaking like a river.

Your hair, always playing games.

Now plays hide-and-seek.

It is hiding.

It is winning.

But this is not your hair Nor your scalp.

These things are not you.

And though I think these things are me.

And in raw moments, I mourn for them.

We are not this.