Reads Like

I found it while clearing out a closet—

a story I'd written at sixteen,

the pages marked in red. The comment

at the top I hadn't seen

in years: reads like you're trying too hard.

Not angry. Efficient.

The handwriting of someone

who had made this judgment sufficient

and moved on.

I sat down on the floor.

The sentence it drew a line through

was one I'd been proud of before

I knew that was a problem.

I read it. Still something there—

whatever something is at sixteen.

The red across it. The stare

of my own old wanting.

I held the folder in my lap.

I didn't throw it out.

I didn't put it back.