All day, trying to hide

the crusty gash glaring

from its swollen mound

by my purple ringed eye.

 

All day, too conscious

of others’ reactions—

naked stares, sneaky

peeks, eyes looking

anywhere but my face.

 

All day, alone in knowing

the wound came from

an innocent frisbee and not

from the hands of a man

poisoned by fear and anger.

 

All day, wondering where

I would possibly hide

if the assumptions about

my injury were true.

 

All day, aching for the women

whose truth is a humiliation

with so many more layers,

so much more gravity,

than my experience

after a silly accident.