Let's Avoid the Mirrors

She talks like she’s been wronged by weather,
by fictional characters,
by everybody but herself.

There’s a way the story comes out polished,
like it’s been told so many times
it forgot it ever had blood in it.

The narrative paints her in a light she needs.
She keeps the parts where she’s clean.
The rest gets edited without honesty.

But the whiteout and scratched-out sentences
are still obvious.

And somehow I’m always the one
with the stain on my hands.
She remembers best.

Every mistake I’ve ever made
sits right there on her tongue,
fresh as if it just happened.

But her side of it—
that part becomes nebulous.
That part softens.
That part learns how to avoid mirrors
and sleep.

We sit in the same room
listening to two versions
of the same silence.

And hers is always the one
that knows how to stand up,
put the mask on,
and walk out unspoiled by repentance.