In my passenger seat is a girl
with more beauty than all of Great Britain,
but she only sees herself in funhouse mirrors.
Most days she wades knee-deep in silence
and makes beauty marks of her own design
because she doesn’t notice how
the room gets brighter when she walks through the door.

I remember the first time I cut into my own skin;
I remember when I smiled more as my hunger worsened,
and I remember why I stopped.
But for the life of me, I cannot form the words
to feed this lovely girl or to heal her battle wounds.

A cup of green tea and two slices of pizza,
half a breadstick and cream of wheat—
her mouth can take it all in,
but I remember closed doors and reliving meals.
And it still scares me every time she shuts the bathroom door.

There would be no hesitation in holding back her hair
after too many drinks or on a sick day from school—
it’s a different kind of scared.
Scared that she will never know how perfect she is,
because her perfection is sitting cross-legged
in front of the mirror while fixing her hair
and standing in line at a coffee shop.
It’s quiet and simple, but she is impossible to ignore.

This beautiful girl is made of
all the best ingredients;
she is learning a secret family recipe
and buying a secondhand  jigsaw puzzle with no missing pieces.
Stars cannot shine without darkness
and she is the brightest of them all.