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
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