The sadness in your eyes
brought back memories
when I looked at you today,
memories that took me back
to what seems like a lifetime ago.
I saw the emptiness,
the void that now exists
where the irises of your eyes
used to flash color and life.
The light in your smile still lingers,
I can see its memory in the corners of your frown.
The color of your skin
betrays your nod
when asked if you're feeling better.
Your pale, frail little body
looked like a knot, all curled up
in that way on your hospital bed,
and as much as I hated myself for it
I silently cast pity on you.
Your attempt at conversation
was drown out of my ears
by the ringing of a thousand pills
hitting the bathroom counter,
what a beautiful tragedy your parents must have found,
their baby girl
splayed out on the floor like a heap of laundry
needing to be washed.
And you were,
washed that is,
they pumped your stomach the moment you arrived.
All those chemicals filling you
so you'd never be hungry again.
I noticed your scars,
and your freshly made art
hastily carved into your bark
so you wouldn't forget your intentions.
I can feel the thickness
of the air
weighing on you,
and I wish I had something to say
to help lift the burden,
so I simply leave you with
“things will get better,”
but you won't know that
until they do,
because I didn't know it
until now.