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 like
To feel the shadow of hurtful words. To feel small
   Because you cast the shadow.
Now think
   Deep
      Deep
         Deep
Could you say that now? Would you say that now?
All those times you were mean this is just hurtful.