Not That Girl

I recoil when people touch my shoulder, 

whisper, "I'm so sorry."

I want to tell them to take it back because

I am not that girl.

I am not the girl who lost her dad.

I can't be. 

The girl collecting a thousand sad stares, the girl with pocketfuls of ache, is carrying a burden with which I can't lock eyes.

For to look is to crumble.

And I already crumbled yesterday.