Thirteen

The kid in the aisle had the same scuffed toes

on a pair of cheap sneakers I haven't seen in years.

It brought back the gravel of the school lot,

the orange hum of the streetlamps,

and the way the air tasted like copper and cold grease.

I told her I was at the library,

watching her face go soft with a pride I didn't earn.

I let her believe in a version of me

that was already dead in the tall grass by the tracks.

I walked into the house with her trust on my hands

like a stain that won't ever scrub out.