I don't want to be broken when I come back.
I want to be the same as when i left, but I know it won't happen.
When you see me in the airport, pretend that I'm normal.
Pretend I'm as you left me, a flower closed in a book.
But what you forget is that it's already dead.
Pressed petals perfectly aligned and color barely faded, but lacking one thing.
Kiss me as you normally would.
I'll pretend it's normal too.
I'll pretend I never saw that red.
Pooled and clotting, collecting in sockets while some runs down a face.
At the edge of a road. Too cold and dreary and grey.
Don't cry. Not yet, be strong like you're supposed to. Be that girl you want to be and don't cry.
Never eat again. And when you kneel at that porcelain bowl ignore the red that you produce.
Ignore the pain that is associated.
People won't see this side of you.
This wilted piece of filth, this threadbare person your mother thinks is gone.
When you stand and look in the mirror,
ignore the red rim in your eyes.
See what other people do, a flower still pristine.
But know what is really there, roots torn from soil.
Petals picked off so I can see if you love me or not.