*The cold that never left*

​I still feel the bite of that fourth-grade air, The kind of cold that doesn't just touch skin, But seeps into the spaces where a child keeps their trust. I remember the gravel under my shoes, The suitcases that looked like surrendered flags, And my mother’s shoulders, suddenly small, Against a door that used to be home. ​I was small enough to believe it was my fault. ​I remember the salt of my own tears, Taste-testing grief before I knew its name. I whispered "I’m sorry" into the wind, Begging for a mercy I shouldn't have had to earn, Pleading with an aunt who chose a grudge over a niece, Who chose the silence of a house over the breath of her kin. ​The neighbors gave us a floor, a roof, a night— But they couldn't give me back the girl who felt safe. My mother found the grace to let it go, She washed her hands of the soot and moved on, But my hands are still stained with the soot of that fire. ​You tell me to forgive because time has passed? Time doesn't erase the image of my mother begging. Time doesn't warm the memory of that shivering night. My hatred isn't a burden; it’s a witness. It’s the part of me that finally grew up And realized we deserved a coat, a key, and a kind word—