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119
June 3
<p>The first broke something I can't name—</p><p>his quiet, her sharp, both the same kind of flame.</p><p>I smiled for a camera on the second day,</p><p>paid for the proof, then looked away.</p><p>The pictures lied. Or maybe I did.</p><p>Either way, nothing lovely stays hid.</p><p><br/></p><p>And now the third. My birthday. My hands in the basin—washing.</p><p>Clothes. Scrubbing at the stain, I think,</p><p>of a week that already feels too old.</p><p>Soap and water. This story I told</p><p>myself about today. All wrong.</p><p>No singing. No candles. Just this half-empty song.</p><p><br/></p><p>So here I am. June 3.</p><p>Wrists wet. Heart heavy.</p><p>Not asking for joy. Not tonight.</p><p>Just hoping—</p><p>quietly, stupidly, despite the spite—</p><p>that somehow, someway, it gets better.</p><p><br/></p><p>Happy birthday to me.</p>
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