i'm thinking about the way
she peels an orange.
and the way she hands me her scissors-
as if she's handing me
her own safety
for safe-keeping.
the words are getting harder to read.
she writes about running and going nowhere,
and i feel like i'm running next to her.
i want to peel the world for her;
dig my nails into the thick,
stubborn skin
of everything that's hurting her
and pull it away.
to hand her the sweetness, and tell her
"here, i saved this for you.
you don't have
to be
thin
or quiet
or okay-
you just have to eat."
she looks at her reflection and
sees someone who doesn't exist.
it's like another ghost following her.
we're going back this year, to the fire that burned her,
and i'm just standing here
with a cup of water;
watching as others ignore the smoke.
i told the counselor.
told her parents.
told mine.
did Everything
i was supposed to.
(it didn't work.)
they look at her and see
good grades and
defied expectations.
they don't see the girl who
hands me her scissors because
she doesn't trust her own hands.
they don't see her "exceptions".
they don't see the way she runs on
stardust and trauma,
trying to outrun a body she thinks
is too much and
a memory that isn't enough.
she says she's "under watch" when
i'm the only one seeing where she
chooses to hurt because her arms are "off-limits."
it's a strange grief-
mourning someone right in front of you,
knowing one day...
she'll cut too deep.
i'll keep the scissors in my bag.
tell her i love her
until my voice breaks.
how do you save someone
who's being told
they're not drowning?
i'll keep the scissors.
keep the words.
keep the orange slices.
(i just don't know how
to keep her here when
everyone else keeps
looking the other way.)
Mar 30
Mar 30, 2026 at 7:42 PM UTC
i'm thinking about the way
she peels an orange.
and the way she hands me her scissors-
as if she's handing me
her own safety
for safe-keeping.
the words are getting harder to read.
she writes about running and going nowhere,
and i feel like i'm running next to her.
i want to peel the world for her;
dig my nails into the thick,
stubborn skin
of everything that's hurting her
and pull it away.
to hand her the sweetness, and tell her
"here, i saved this for you.
you don't have
to be
thin
or quiet
or okay-
you just have to eat."
she looks at her reflection and
sees someone who doesn't exist.
it's like another ghost following her.
we're going back this year, to the fire that burned her,
and i'm just standing here
with a cup of water;
watching as others ignore the smoke.
i told the counselor.
told her parents.
told mine.
did Everything
i was supposed to.
(it didn't work.)
they look at her and see
good grades and
defied expectations.
they don't see the girl who
hands me her scissors because
she doesn't trust her own hands.
they don't see her "exceptions".
they don't see the way she runs on
stardust and trauma,
trying to outrun a body she thinks
is too much and
a memory that isn't enough.
she says she's "under watch" when
i'm the only one seeing where she
chooses to hurt because her arms are "off-limits."
it's a strange grief-
mourning someone right in front of you,
knowing one day...
she'll cut too deep.
i'll keep the scissors in my bag.
tell her i love her
until my voice breaks.
how do you save someone
who's being told
they're not drowning?
i'll keep the scissors.
keep the words.
keep the orange slices.
(i just don't know how
to keep her here when
everyone else keeps
looking the other way.)
