Tonight street lights are the only stars.
 A few burnt out and I do not see
 the black ice on the sidewalk.
  
 I fall 
 hit my head.
 Shattered something in my eyes.
 Grey turns into bursts
 of red and blue 
 and all the things
 that don’t make sense.
  
 I ask two strangers,
  
 “What does it look like?”
  
 They tell me love is 
 orange and yellow normalcy.

 I crawl to my car
 reach for my glasses
 in the glove compartment.
 The colors fade and I’m seeing
 for the first time
 in 13 years.
  
 Out loud I ask, 
  
 “What have you done?”
  
 Sadness comes to me
 petite and vulnerable
 yearning to be seen.
  
 She looks at me, 
 shakes her head.
 The view shifts and I’m there.
 I’m 13 and I’m falling.
 I’m 14 and I’m calling his dad.
  
 “Your son, he took pills.”
  
 “What happened? Why did he do this?”
  
 “I told him I didn’t love him anymore.”
  
 I’m alone on my bedroom floor.
 My mom listens outside my closed door.
 She hears a flat tone in my voice
 dissociated from the words I say.
  
 “He did this because of me.”
  
 My voice sounds older.
 Older than 14. 
 Thick with pain and knowing.
  
 I watch myself from the window sill.
 I see the exact moment there’s a shift
 in the eyes of a teenager.
  
 It is then
 I begin to believe I am responsible
 for the feelings of others.
  
 That love is torturous and painful
 secretive and life-threatening
 all-consuming.
  
 It is this moment I believe 
 I am the victim
 and love the betrayer.
  
 The numbness of 14 consumes me.
 The same feeling
 that helped me dial the number
 to tell his dad his son called 
 to say goodbye.
  
 His dad is remarkably calm.
 When I say these words
 and that I was the reason for them.
  
 A car beeps. 
 I startle and see a crack
 in the glasses 
 that have sat in their case
 for 13 years.
  
 The frames are bent,
 the lenses scratched and cloudy.
 I remove them from my face,
fold them delicately in my lap.
  
 I wait to feel.
 Nothing comes.