by C.S. Fuqua
Three years since last contact,
when one shows up at awards night,
squirming up for fake hugs
and I didn’t know you’d be here.
Generated smile and deadly eyes confront
while the rest of us take a step back.
The fake feigns ignorance,
but she’d be ashes if looks were fire.
Memories of then —
blood and depression,
name-calling and hate,
a corpse at the end of a rope —
smolder in this moment,
that surely conveys
the disdain and disgust —
but maybe that’s what