I see you sitting across the room,

shifting anxiously in your chair.

Silently toying with the tab on your drink can,

listening in on a conversation that you weren’t actively included in.

Thinking of all of the responses you’d have and stories you’d tell if anyone actually cared,

but they don’t because when a bridge is burned, you blame the one holding the matches.

I don’t know if you knew what you were doing,

if the fire got out of control or if you were deliberately setting fire to the ones you love.

I shouldn’t feel bad for the woman who is facing consequences for her actions but I understood the nervous shifting all too well,

outcast was written across your forehead in invisible ink, seen by those who bothered to look.

So I spoke,

short and sweet,

enough to ease the obvious but not enough to forgive the damage that’s been done.

-z.d.