picture the pieces of yourself
that you spent hours picking apart
for every flaw and imperfection
for every blemish, every mark.
double them as plasters,
band-aids stuck to shield the wounds
made by your mistakes,
by your infractions.
they weren't good enough.
sticking to your skin
like leaves off branches,
baring crimson and flesh torn open.
that’s where she was.
but where she is now, is healing.