CHILDREN OF THE STARS
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.