I am sorry that your parents are too absorbed in healing
their broken hearts to notice that you are falling through the cracks. I am
sorry that it took noticing scars on your arms to realize that I was too
consumed in trying to get my degree to notice that you needed a hug. Or a laugh.
Or somewhere safe to cry. But you are young and that is an incredible thing to
be. An incredible place to be. It is a place of fluidity. Nothing about you is
defined. Except that you are a bubbly girl with big bright eyes.
I wish I had remembered to teach you early in life that you
would never have to seek for love beyond the walls of my purple room. That you
did not need to ask for it, or beg for it, that it came unrequited, unwanted
but still enveloped you in its embrace. Someone should have told you. Or showed you. It should have bee me.
You should not have had to seek it at the bottom of vodka bottles at thirteen. Or in slits in your arms. I am sorry I did not teach you.
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