Word of the day: Exulansis

My hands didn’t tremble at the time; I might’ve even cracked a joke. The wound got tucked away deep and immediately. I just remember him slipping off the shovel, the way he didn’t stay where he was meant to. It’s exulansis to explain — these are my lighter wounds, the ones I survived, while others bear cuts far deeper, cuts I can only imagine.

He is now just a puddle. Turned into a puddle because he spoke with us. Dragged into the street in front of his house, most likely in front of his family. Doused in gasoline and set ablaze for having the audacity to speak to us. The futility of trying to scoop him into a body bag, to gather what’s left into something whole, is overwhelming. It’s exulansis to put this into words — my wounds barely touch the depth of what others carry. Some things people will simply never understand.

Those things people will simply never understand; we must carry them anyway. Even these lighter scars leave traces. It’s exulansis to try and explain — every mark, every memory, weighs heavier when you see the full scale of what some endure.