Mom was on the phone a lot.

Whimpering.

She cried a lot.

I couldn't turn her tears to starlight.

They stayed shards of shattered glass

That cut me because I couldn't smooth them.

Because I had caused them.

Maybe that's an even worse bad thing.

Worse than the bad thing I did to the mean man.

Worse than the bad things done by those that look like me.

Not being able to make Mom smile.

Making her cry,

The one person who never seemed scared,

Who didn't judge my looks,

Who loved my smile.

Now I'd stolen her smile,

And couldn't replace it.