to people I once loved.
Mrs. Hartwell, who taught me music in third grade, stared at her hands.
A deacon who used to give us butterscotch candies slowly shook his head.
In his version, I would remain the shame.
Nothing I could show him would change that.
That is the tax nobody warns you about.
Truth doesn’t convince everybody.
It only stops the lie from being unanimous.
And something else ended in that room.
The daughter who might someday come home.
The girl who still imagined being forgiven back into
