past lives

she watches you —

from the back of the class, bookworm,

timid to raise her head or a hand in

question, comment, complaint —

as your voice echoes across the

room, being acknowledged, being

heard, being seen, taking up space.

she watches you —

from the table next to the booming

speaker, stuffing her face with the

only comfort in reach: food —

as you laugh as loudly as you please,

mingling and making magic with all

you encounter, dancing without a care.

she watches you —

crouched in a corner, observing

looks of disdain, the ridiculing fingers,

wanting to hide, frozen in a feeling —

as you stand as one against many,

cemented in courage, sticky with gall,

calling to focus wrongs done, to her.

she watches you —

tracing the circles around her eyes,

critiquing her nose and her hair,

wishing away her pudgy stomach —

as you smile back at your reflection,

highlight or not, beach bod or not,

wig or not, embracing the beauty.

you watch her.

you look back, cracking a warm smile,

a grateful glance full of assurance:

you haven't forgotten — and won't.

you watch her.

you hug from across the way, the

distance between the shed skin, a

long embrace: "i know. it's okay."

you watch her.

her face crunches, her brows wrinkle,

her heart breaks, disbelief in these

words — but hope in how you bloomed.

you watch her.

she has no idea: the power she yields,

the beauty inside and out, the change

she is capable of, table shaker.

you watch her.

she watches you. a deep breath, a wipe

of the eyes, shoulders squared, gaze

steady. "keep going," she whispers.

and you do.

k.c.d., 06/2021