"Welcome back," says the silver stained rectangles when that's the only hand you can hold because every other coping mechanism is just as harmful.
"Welcome home," says the sideways thoughts when you're sliding through the crevices of your brain but get stuck in a black hole socket.
"Are you warm yet?" asks the deep red valleys when you're bearing over your sink and covering your arm in dark wash rags.
"Do you remember this?" asks the familiar burn of the white soap in the red shower, asks the watered eyes and soaking pillowcase, asks the summer of sophomore year, asks the midnight letters never sent, asks the boy who never forgave me for helping him like my parents are doing to me, asks my father, who's reflection burns with wild red hair and bad decisions, is his daughter who asks is there even hope?