What I Recognized in a Stranger

I was watching the back of someone's neck

on the subway, and I couldn't look away—

not staring exactly, just noticing

the way the hair curved down,

the vulnerable hollow where the skull

met the shoulders in a particular way.

Thin skin there.

The kind of thin that makes you aware

of what's underneath.

The fragility. The specific way

they held their shoulders up,

like they were holding something

they couldn't put down,

something heavy with weight.

I know that posture.

I've worn that posture.

The particular slump of someone

carrying something invisible,

carrying it without complaint.

And I thought:

I could break that person.

Not with force or with might.

Just with words.

Just with the kind of casual cruelty

that gets passed around like

it's nothing, like it's light.

Their neck was so exposed.

Such an easy target.

The soft part. The part

that knows how to surrender,

that knows how to bend.

I looked away.

Not because I'm good or because I'm kind.

But because seeing myself

reflected in a stranger's vulnerability

was too close,

too real,

too much to deny.