The room goes blank.

Not blank, the way you can see
but blank, no presence, no motion.
With one word, you transported me
backwards, in time.
but not here.
Watching your blond hair dance
and your hand gestures
the way the colors blend on your shirt
trying to come back to the room.

Through a wind tunnel
certain words, broken
shattered like glass
pierce the haze.
Firecrackers on campus.
and something about the way we
translate noises.

Navy Yard Shooting.
my head was exploding
so I jumped up
and left the room.

Moments later staring at the mauve
of a bathroom stall
telling myself that the walls
are mauve.
The ceilings
are tan.
The locks
are silver.
And I am sitting
on a toilet seat near class

hearing bullets
not seeing death
or on a phone
to an emergency responder.
At school.
I'm just in the bathroom.

I wish I could find a way
to tell you
without feeling like
"that girl"
all over again.


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