I want to reach through the mirror and grab
your chin in my hand
Twisting your face upwards so you can look me in the eye.
I want to stretch my arms out and take your hands
Washing the blood from your knuckles where
the splinters of wood pepper your skin.
I want to remind you
That you were the one who carried through
You are the one who sits with the cold body on the shower floor, and picks it up.
When everyone is trying to bleed you dry
You are the one who feeds it
Who tucks it into bed
And you should be proud.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.