The Anatomy Of A Mystery

The doctors call me a question mark,

they study my charts as if the answers might rise from paper and ink,

then spill out a neat diagnosis.

Like, something that fits in a tidy box.

Except my body is not a box,

It is an ocean,

where tides are pulled by moons only I have seen.

My pulse does not keep time like theirs.

My blood sings in a key the world has yet to name.

I carry constellations in the marrow of my bones.

Planets hum in my ribs, and gravity shifts when I walk.

The doctors they measure, they probe, they write their notes.

But,

they cannot name the way my cells whisper to each other like an ancient language,

they cannot name how my breath holds the scent of storms from another world.

So, perhaps I am not here to be solved.

Perhaps my wonder lives in the not knowing,

a reminder that even the brightest minds cannot chart every star in a moving sky.

I am not anomaly,

I am evidence that magic still walks in a human frame.