Page 39 of I Wish I Would've Warned You

A few polite murmurs ripple through the audience.

She grips the mic and takes a breath before glancing at the page. Then she begins:

You taught me love with fingers crossed,

A lullaby of gain and loss.

Your voice was sweet, your smile divine,

But lies were laced in every line.

You said I mattered, said I shone?—

But left me crying, all alone.

I watched you chase a thousand men,

Each time you swore, “It’s different then.”

You traded hugs for empty praise,

For silks and rings and brighter days.

I begged for crumbs of what you gave

To strangers you would bend to save.

You dressed my wounds, then made them bleed,

Fed off my silence, cloaked in need.

Now all I have are shards and shame,

A mother’s love—a twisted game.

You birthed a girl, then left a ghost,

And I still ache for you the most.

She steps back, finished, and loud applause fills the café.

I stare at her amidst the clapping—holding back my hands because it feels wrong. Like applauding someone for bleeding in front of strangers.

She steps down, and her eyes find mine, but she doesn’t return to the table. Instead, she makes a beeline for the exit.

Confused, I set a few bills on our table before following her into a light rain.

I find her turning toward the alley, and I grab her from behind, pushing her against the bricks.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I ask. “Am I missing something?”

“I’m ready to go home.”

“That’s not what I asked you.” I look into her eyes. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I hate that I met you this way.” She hisses. “I hate it so much.”

“Why is that?”

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