To the Young Man Crying in a Backstage Dressing Room Isabelle Hutchinson

TO THE YOUNG MAN CRYING IN A BACKSTAGE DRESSING ROOM

Isabelle Hutchinson

After Kim Addonizio

Under hot white lights lining the ceiling, and condemning, ever-present mirrors, you sit across from your reflection.

Hand poised, just barely touching your bottom lip, swelling like a rosebud.

Maybe it’s because last night you lay with a man hoping to find your salvation, only to find empty, strangling sheets and in the wreckage he left, you read your horoscope from a dimming phone with a battery of 15%

and for the thousandth time wonder why you’re a Taurus when you feel like a Capricorn. Good things are coming your way. But, you are losing faith in the stars.

Because, each day, you wake to an unmended hole in the cavern of your chest as you watch your dreams grow stale.

Is that why you throw back shots, suck on paper laced with acid, or kiss strangers?

Maybe it’s all those reasons (or none), why a tear like an icicle along my roof in winter trickles down that fine line of your cheekbone.

I understand. I could tell you about all the times I hid in bathrooms, wiped scratchy paper towels on burning skin, stared at red eyes until they turned white.

But, how can I? You are only a boy I saw in flashes, a portrait painted from a carelessly dripped story told over a scorching iron and starch.

It was for a moment, only, but I think I saw your soul. I hope you know it was beautiful.