Humiliation

I call her Ms. H because names are easier than saying— I was too much. Too soon. Too wrong. She isn’t loud. She doesn’t speak. She waits— in the gap between what I gave and what you didn’t take. Ms. H isn’t you laughing at me. She’s the one who dusts me off when I offer my beating heart— just for you to forget it on your way out. She’s the one who sits with me after you left, and we sit quietly as the heart slowly stops beating. She’s always there, just outside the light. Her raven pupils so clear they reflect my entire life— and say, Look. That was you. I don’t want to look. But I do. And I stay. _________________ Note: Written on June 5th, 2025 Contest Title: Pick-A-Title, Vol 52 - Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh