The Same Shade

Walgreens, cosmetics aisle, 1997 walking toward me.

The exact lipstick I took when I was sixteen,

that small theft that tasted like electricity,

like I was finally someone worth arresting.

I didn't steal it this time.

But my heart did that same old crime—

hammering, my palms went slick,

and I felt the old trick

of my own teenage hands reaching.

The cashier's face from back then

watches me still. I see her when

I close my eyes, know what she knew—

that I was guilty, that guilt grew

quieter but never quite left.

I walked out without it.

But something in me couldn't quit

the feeling of having taken something

that wasn't mine, becoming

someone I still can't forgive.