Recovery

Silly Girl

Silly girl, you bled for him, didn't you? Grew out your hair, shrunk down your waist, let him fuck you with the lights off and paint his name in blood onto your back. Silly girl, forgive yourself for the bad dates, for saying yes, for meaning no, for the diets, the discounted liquor, the makeup you painted onto your face like camouflage. Your dreams were made for the dark, they bloom and grow inside of you. Your womb, a greenhouse. Your hands, wind. You were in love except he didn't love you, but you tried, didn't you? Silly girl, you are not the most reliable narrator. All those nights you waited up to hear from him, phone poised in your hand like a gun. You've always loved things that were the worst for you: trans fat, sweet tea, Black Friday sales, boys whose hands feel like triggers. You'll grow out of it, or you won't, and you'll forget to delete the voicemails, the emojis you sent when you couldn't express yourself in words. Just look at the quiet shipwreck of you. It was always about the drowning, and you never learned to swim.