There’s a girl at school
with porcelain skin,
white as snow—

but her wrists
are covered in red lines.

I had to report it
to the administration.
It was the right thing to do.

I don’t know if she knows
it was me.
But now she lingers
in the principal’s office,
her face even paler,
nauseous,
locking herself
in the bathroom.

I fear I’ve made public
what was sacredly private
in her universe—
and that it may get worse.

My chest feels heavy
imagining what she might do
to herself,
if they don’t care for her
the right way.

Because once,
I was a girl
just like her.