You unearth a poem: “If you were a tree I would be your roots.”
I stir my leftover lettuce in the bowl, soak the leaves with vinegar.

Your words seared your skin. You covered
your wounds with a plaid button-down, hoped the blood would soak through.

If they saw it, they never said. I would have laughed with them
in the lunchroom, would have called you gay, teacher’s pet.

I never would have opened the classroom door.

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