The Staged Collapse

The photo is grainy, the flash too bright,

catching me in the corner of that kitchen in June.

I remember the heat and the way I decided

to let my knees go soft, a slow-motion spill

onto the linoleum floor.

I claimed the air had gone thin as a veil.

I watched through my lashes as you knelt down,

your hand steady on my shoulder,

your voice finally focused on me alone.

I found a napkin later in my pocket,

stained with a smudge of mascara I’d wiped away

to make the crying look more real.

I got what I wanted—the ride home, the quiet—

but now the victory tastes like copper,

sharp and metallic behind my teeth.