Please fight for me.
Please.
I am literally begging for you to walk up to this room and make me stop crying.
This isn't poetry, Mom.
This isn't hard to understand.
This is your daughter begging you to please fight for me.
I don't remember the kisses goodnight or the
gentle hugs when I scraped my knee.
What I do remember is waiting in the closet,
scared and alone,
learning for the first time that the
only person who can really be
there for me, is me.
I waited
I listened for you.
I hoped for you.
Did you get that?
I said,
I hoped for you.