I asked her if she was having a bad day

I asked her if she was having a bad day.

She didn't look up. She turned away.

The fluorescent light hit her name tag,

and now I'm the man who dragged

her silence into the open, who made her perform

normalcy when she wanted to stay warm

in whatever dark place she was in.

Three weeks now and I see her in strangers,

and I think about how words are dangers.

I should have said nothing. Should have left

her alone. Instead I gave her theft—

the man who noticed, who cared too much,

who thought his kindness was a crutch

she needed.

Now I'm the wound. I'm the reason

she thinks about the post office season

of her life differently. I'm the stain

she can't wash out, the small pain

of being seen by someone who meant well

but only deepened the shell

she'd built around herself.