Stop telling me you’re fine.
You’re not.
I hear it in your voice
when every word that leaves
your lips is ten pounds
heavier than it ought to be.

Stop telling me you’re fine.
Your nail beds are ravaged.
Your knee won’t stop bouncing, 
and the rings under your
eyes are dark enough to
look like smudged makeup.

Stop telling me you’re fine.
You’ve stopped singing.
Your laundry and dishes
have piled up—each layer
tells of another day gone by.
Like the rings in a tree trunk.

Stop telling me you’re fine.
You’re not.