If I were really honest,
like really, truly, very, really really truly really honest—
I would tell myself that it happened when you didn’t want to go to that birthday party alone. I would tell myself that it was the quiet pleading that kept me from retreating. I would tell myself it was they way you pretended not to care. I would smile.
What a Cheshire smile it would be,
the one following the salty pricks of my own blood on my own tongue.
“Nevertheless I think you’re upsetting people.”
And then there would be daisies and gravestones. Sunflowers.
This is a side-stepping omission.
Self-inflicted fabrications waxing involuntary;
silent Tourette syndroming sideways.
Rewind, fast-forward, slow-motion destruction.
Bullets in and out my eyes.
If I were honest,
I would say winter, and so many after.