There it goes.
I tried—
thrice—
to catch it.

Slipped past me
like that summer
in the rain.

Wasted.
Desolate.
Alone.

It went away in tears.
They stream
down my dusky face,
slide
down the neck
where my shame hides.

You see,
Mother—
I am not blind.
I see it too:
a mirror to my being,
held up
in nails.

It’s vile.
It moves on its own.

And yes—
I hate me
just as much
as you do.