Still There

The store is exactly the same.

Same fluorescent hum,

same narrow aisles,

and there—the shelf.

The item I took when I was fifteen,

still in its original packaging,

still waiting for someone to pay.

I never used it.

Kept it for years like evidence,

like a small stone in my pocket

I had to carry

to prove I was someone

who took things.

Eventually I threw it out.

Some apartment, some cleaning day,

and it was gone.

But here it is again.

Same product, same design,

infinite copies, mass-produced,

the way guilt isn't.

The way fifteen-year-old shame

isn't replaceable,

doesn't get restocked

when you finally think

you've cleaned it out.

I don't touch it.

I walk past the shelf

like I'm walking past a mirror

that shows me exactly

what I looked like

when I was desperate enough

to be someone else.