I am glassy and hesitant,
uncertainty you can touch and taste.
I’m written-off and small,
the first in a series of many,
and when I peek out from under your eyelashes
I waver first—
then fall in straight paths
and sometimes in
You send me off on some arbitrary route,
blinking me back,
afraid that someone will see your vulnerable self, cracked open.
I will tumble down your cheeks,
first one then another,
but know that the second droplet always packs a harder punch;
one tear is accidental
two tears means you know how much you’ve been hurt.
I am post-dream depression;
I am a rose with all its petals plucked off, ugly and thorned;
I am the discovery of a disappointing sky,
the pragmatic notion that the stars we see at night are dead stars,
energy and light that once was, though
naïve onlookers believe those distant and raging suns still
glimmer in perfect time.
I am truth.
But like the stars, I, too, will vanish—
it takes only air and sleeves to pat me dry—
and these traces of me, the ones you can feel with your fingers
the ones that haunt your face
are gone in seconds.
I pool on Kleenex and am thrown in the trash.
But the stains that remain in your eyes
are my ghost; I linger in the form of red eyes
and smeared makeup,
the holy water of