You were sixteen when you put that needle in your arm.
You walked out the door and you gave up.
On us. On everything.
It hurt.
Digging your fingers into your skin,
pulling out
each
individual
vein.
You unraveled, like a stuffed bear,
Your textile torn, your dangling ears,
Your eyes hanging from a thread.
You were ugly and didn’t know how to put yourself back together.
So you left. You gave up. On us. On everything.
You put that needle in your arm.
One last attempt to pull yourself together.
To fix your split head, where the stuffing
clung.
But it all went wrong. There was no one around
when you came undone
but I wish I could have been.
I wish I could have found you.
I wish I could have seen what you
had become. What you had made of yourself.
I wish I could have watched you die.
I wish I could have
seen the doctors stitch you up,
seen the patches sewn into your skin.
I wish I could’ve seen that needle go into your arm
and come out the other side.