a reflection (in the bathroom after English class)

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing. – Macbeth Act V, Scene V (19-28)

she scrubs her hands

like some Lady Macbeth,

yet fails to remove the graphite

from her hands, or the blood

from beneath her fingertips,

or the guilt that is

ground further into her skin –

which should she regret:

the life she might have saved

or the one she knows she destroyed?

(the answer is yes.)

and in the mirror,

a pale face chokes on the smoke

of brightly burning souls.