No Record

The fluorescent strips hum the same frequency

they hummed when I was fifteen.

The cosmetics aisle catches you in those mirrors—

small reflective squares propped on the shelves

like someone left them for exactly this moment,

for people like me to see themselves

mid-theft, mid-choice, mid-something.

I'm standing there now and I can't remember

if I actually did it.

The lighter. The pocket. The walk past the register

without looking back.

I have the memory so clearly:

the weight in my jacket,

the particular fluorescent glow,

my own face in those mirrors,

older but recognizable,

capable of anything.

But there's no record.

No scar.

No shoplifting charge,

no moment where they caught me,

no consequences that would make it real.

Just a story I've told myself

that might have been true.

The pharmacy is almost exactly as I left it.

Same bottles. Same glare.

I walk past the lip balms.

My reflection stares back—older, no crime,

just a woman trying to remember

if she was ever actually guilty

of anything.

The lighter was blue.

Or it wasn't.

I can see it so clearly

I might have invented it.

Maybe I didn't steal it.

Maybe I just wanted to be someone who could.