Not Meant For My Ears

Clinking cutlery and low murmurs—

a sharp phrase cuts through the clatter:

“You always make it worse,

even when you say you’re sorry.”

The words hang between sips and rustling napkins,

carving a groove I didn’t ask for.

Faces turn away, smiles slip too quick,

a wound folded up inside quiet voices.

I sit frozen like a mistake caught midair,

hearing blame that wasn’t meant for me,

but still breaks like glass

in the back of my throat,

and no one notices

except for me.