One fine morning,
your words got up and walked away
turning their heads they never looked back,
(even though I tell myself they did)
One morning— a Tuesday I think
I never felt more loved.
Twirling in my blue and white dress
little hands half the size of yours
you looked at me
like I had the world in my eyes.
One day,
I can’t remember which—
it spun the other way
and I don’t think I could have stopped it.
Did you mean to curse at me
until the rain fell,
or was your anger meant for the stars?
because (regrettably)
I think God made children look like both.
Now,
I like to find your words
in the mouths of others
harsh and biting, until
one fine morning
I wake up a stranger to your hand
but the words are mine.