The Party I Didn't Go To

I found her face in that old box,

her smile bright, fourteen and true,

and something in me stops and locks—

the lie I told, the thing I knew.

"I have the flu," I said,

"I'm burning up with fever,"

but what I had instead

was fear, and no believer.

She'd asked me if I'd come.

I chose to stay alone.

Now she's a stranger, and I'm numb,

remembering the tone.

The way her voice just dropped

when I said that I couldn't make it,

the way something in her stopped,

like maybe I could break it.

I was thirteen and afraid

of something I can't name,

and so I made

myself to blame.

Twenty years and still at night

I see her photo in that yearbook page,

and I'm still running from that light,

still carrying that rage.