The Glitter That Would Not Leave

 The Glitter That Wouldn’t Leave

No one warns you that blood can glisten like glitter.

That it hides in the cracks, clings to your skin,

and shows up when you least expect it—

on your hands, on the steering wheel,

when all you wanted was to drive away from it all.

No one tells you the smell of it—metal and memory.

No one tells you how gunshots echo long after the sound is gone.

How they make your ears bleed in ways doctors can’t see.

How the burn of a bullet isn’t just for the skin—it brands your soul.

I scrubbed a car that wasn’t just a car.

I touched doors that still held the shape of their fear,

fingers and palms etched into the paint like a silent scream.

I was left to clean it,

to breathe it in,

to carry what they left behind.

And it stayed.

In my hands.

In my nose.

In my sleep.

No one tells you this part—

because if they did, they’d have to sit with the horror of it, too.

And so I carried it alone.

But I am saying it now:

I saw it. I touched it. I bled in ways no one saw.

And I release it.

Not because it doesn’t matter—

but because I matter more than the stain.