When Karma Comes And It Will
When karma comes around —and it will—
it will not knock politely
with white gloves and a hymn.
It will crawl up
through the floorboards
like black water in March,
cold as a widow’s wedding ring.
The life you lived
will loosen its tongue at last.
The walls will remember you.
The mirrors too—
those silver traitors
holding your true face
beneath the practiced one.
Every kindness you strangled
with your careful hands,
every soft thing
you fed to the fire—
they will rise.
Not angels.
Not demons.
Only the terrible arithmetic
of being known.
And the people you wounded
will not need revenge anymore.
Your own footsteps
will testify against you,
muddy and endless
through every room.
When karma comes—and it will—
it comes wearing your voice,
your eyes,
your fingerprints.
You cannot hide from a thing
that grew inside you
all along.
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