Yearbook

I was looking for my calc notes—God knows why—

and the book fell open like a trap, or a lie.

1998. The smell of old glue and dust.

The hinges are covered in a fine, orange rust.

And there it was, in a green that makes my teeth ache—

acid-bright ink, a mistake for my sake?

"Good luck with... everything." The dots are a wall.

She didn't want to wish me anything at all.

The ink was so cheap it soaked through the page.

A chemical blotch from a different age.

It left a smear across Mr. Miller’s chin.

I closed the book and tucked the hurt back in.