Somewhere inside,
a little girl
has been writing
this entire time.
She is running out of space,
but is too afraid to leave.
I opened my notebook to save her.
I can see her now.
Suffocating
between the lines
my pen is trying
pulling apart.

We are all born soft.
Floating into the hands of others.
Some don’t know how to hold on,
brush our hair back,
make a point to smile,
protect our tears in their palm.  
Instead,
they poke at us.
Say no
and go
with a firm fist.
Their claws try to embrace us,
but they only scratch the surface.
With so many punctures,
our insides drain.
Sinking,
we become skin and bones,
too hard to reach.

The scars
that do
not
hide
are the
stitches that
hold
her
heart
right on
her sleeve.

My flesh and my thoughts
meet in the mirror.
They argue right in front of me.
Like resentful parents
picking their stories apart
as if I’m not there
waiting for a happy ending.
I am invisible.
The cursing doesn’t stop.
It only gets louder
when they come to an agreement
that this home,
the skin I walk into every day
and the mind that used to wander
with her head up
is too broken for anyone to love.