the morning after
the morning after i found out,
the sun rose anyway.
light pressed against the window as if nothing had shifted.
the room –
once naive,
a little reckless –
stood with silence.
in the mirror the girl stared back.
i almost recognized her but she was slightly distorted.
white polyester.
a scarlet red stain.
the street remained unchanged,
girls moved in bright clusters of hope.
doors opened.
trees danced.
no one slowed.
cold air grazed my bare skin.
i zipped my jacket to my throat.
auditorium full of buzzing voices.
one hand over my secret like a child clutching his crumpled up report card.
but creases won’t undo ink.
yesterday,
i mistook myself for a star.
this morning,
i felt the fire exploding quietly and i realized
even light is a kind of confession.
stories stiched by a broken girl 