You keep staring at the line of my throat

like the black knit means something,

and it does.

It is not fashion,

not modesty,

not distance.

It is pressure,

restraint,

a seam pulled tight

across a place that should never open.

You ask what I’m hiding

as if curiosity is harmless,

as if wanting makes you brave,

as if names don’t wake things.

But every time you say “show me,”

something shifts against my skin,

something warm and patient,

something that has learned to listen

from the inside.

I know the sound it makes

when it turns toward a voice.

I know the way it presses upward

when someone looks too long.

That is why the collar stays high.

That is why I do not let your hands rest there.

Leave the black knit where it is.

Leave the seam unbroken.

Some things stay quiet

only when they’re covered.

Some things stay mine

only when they’re hidden.

Don’t ask what’s underneath.

Keep your eyes above the collar.

There is something at my throat

that should never meet your gaze.

Don’t ask what’s underneath.

The black knit is not for comfort.

It is the only thing between us

and a mouth that is learning

how to say your name.

It started as a heat under the jaw,

then a pulse,

then a second rhythm

folded underneath my own.

No blood,

no wound worth showing,

just a soft split under the skin

and a breath that was not mine

breathing with me.

Now it sleeps there,

folded inward,

wet and listening.

When I speak too much,

it mouths the words

a beat too late.

When I stay silent,

it feeds on that instead.

When someone touches the collar,

it wakes

and leans into the warmth

like recognition.

You think if you see it clearly

you’ll understand it,

but understanding is the worst thing

you could offer.

It likes attention.

It likes being witnessed.

It likes the moment

a face changes

from doubt to belief.

That is the moment

it remembers.

I have seen what happens

when the fabric comes down.

The room goes still

before anything moves.

Then it speaks in my voice,

only cleaner,

only hungrier.

It does not lunge.

It unfolds.

And once it has seen you properly,

once it has learned

the shape of your fear,

it does not let that knowledge go.

Don’t ask what’s underneath.

Don’t make me prove this.

I am not protecting a secret;

I am containing a consequence.

Don’t ask what’s underneath.

Leave the black knit where it is.

It is the last good barrier

between your face

and something that has been waiting

behind mine.

Don’t ask what’s underneath.

If it answers back,

it will not stop with me.

Leave it covered.

Leave it breathing.

Don’t ask what’s underneath.