The words hung there

Hurting, painful

Sharp like glass

Broken on the floor, and they look at me

And I can hear them say

“She’s so clumsy,”

As if this always happens, as if it doesn’t matter

But the words are still there, and the glass still hurts

It’s my fault

It’s always my fault

Isn’t it always her fault?

And I’ve tried to forget,

Even as they clean up the mess

The no-longer-a mess

But even as the words are swept up

And dumped in the trash

I remember them

It’s my fault

It’s always my fault

Isn’t it always her fault?

And as they walk away

I want to scream

Want to call out, make them stop

Let the words float past my lips

“It’s my fault!”

And my voice falters, crackles

“It’s always my fault.”

And I want them to turn around

Look at each other; talk like I’m not there

“Isn’t it always her fault?”

But they don’t.

And the trash is taken away

And the words are gone

The mess, the no-longer-a mess, is gone

It’s not my fault.

It’s not always my fault.

It’s not?