We walked home together. We talked about schoolwork,   and then you said,“You are adopted. I’m sorry.”Sometimes you commented on the dirt on my clothes   as we walked out of school.But this felt different, like we were at a party and all of a sudden   the music stopped and everyone stared at me.The words take me back: You’re adopted. I’m sorry?What did you say?

These words make me feel like I should hide in a box   and never come out.I am utterly quiet while my hands clench into fists.You shattered the moment, the laughing, the talking, everything.And you know it.

I am like a rope held together by trust and care.   That rope has been severed—A rope made of tiny threads that wear out if you use it too much—   by you.And you can say “I’m sorry” because you do not know what it is likeTo feel the shadow of hurtful words. To feel small   Because you cast the shadow.Now think   Deep      Deep         DeepCould you say that now? Would you say that now?All those times you were mean this is just hurtful.