The bus is late the sky is cold

The bus is late, the sky is cold,

I feel the day begin to fold.

I catch my face in the window pane,

distorted by a streak of rain.

I click my tongue against my teeth,

a sharp sound from the lungs beneath.

It’s her noise, dry and full of spite,

the way she’d end a kitchen fight.

My upper lip has gone away,

tucked thin and hard and ghostly grey.

I look for me, but find her there,

with heavy eyes and flattened hair.