After the Fact

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,
this glare
that surely conveys
the disdain and disgust —
but maybe that’s what
fakes crave.

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