The time my knees scraped the cement and I tore my jeans and bled all over

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. 

No.

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.