A girl lost her father to cancer
at eighteen.
Tell me what that means,
what that was good for.
Because she lost herself too that day and
she's not back yet.
She pleaded; dear sickness,
let him see me grow up first.
They got two weeks.
It's been one year,
seven months,
thirteen days,
eight hours.
So tell me who you are to say
she's not still broken.
When her mother was abused
and her boyfriend had a child
with someone new.
Tell me how she
should have seen it coming.
When she was interrogated about her
sexuality, and
in the papers they spoke of hellfire as
a cure for natural desire.
When her female friend
made fun of her weight
and she hit herself for believing it.
When her male friends
violated her at parties
even though she said
no.
Tell me how she
should have spoken up.
Tell me how she
should have been sober.
Limbs itching, nails scratching
until imagined flaws become real scars.
When she eventually confused
closeness,
***,
with love - her comfort in being
alone
dragged good people down with her.
Tell me how she was to blaim.