The window shows me talking

The window shows me talking.

My mouth makes shapes. I'm explaining again

how Marcus had to cancel, how his sister's in town,

how I understand completely, how I'm not upset—

and I stop.

Because I said this last month.

Same friend. Same excuse. Different sister maybe.

Or the same sister. I can't remember.

My reflection keeps going. The words keep moving

around my teeth like they're trained animals,

like they've worn a groove in the air

between my mouth and the glass.

You know what you do, the therapist said,

and I wanted to throw something.

Not at her. At myself, through the glass,

at the version of me that keeps

nodding and understanding

and taking it and taking it

and making up reasons why

that's what love looks like.

My reflection looks tired.

My reflection looks familiar.