A Girl Grows

road

road

on the journey
to a thousand years
of growth
—body and soul—
i stopped to look at myself.

there are many thoughts that
swim through a growing girl's head
in the space of a lifetime,
but that day,
i sank to my knees,
and thought,
for the first time,
something i had never thought of before,
but would inevitably turn to
in the days to come.

because
i could never bathe the feeling
of groping fingers off my flesh,
my skin,
and i was repulsed by myself,
and by everyone.

who cared about me?

why did everyone say
"there is always someone
who loves you"
when it wasn't true?

there are times
when no one will love you,
not even yourself,
and that is the cold truth;
i wept into my fingertips
and fed the thirsty soil
underneath my knees
with my tears—
after it all,
i waited in the petrichor,
waited for something,
maybe a sign.

i hated the mirror.
i did not throw it another
parting glance.

and i thought to myself:
would you be better off dead?

i suddenly remembered
a strange memory.

my mother took my hand and led me
to a separate room
after Lavender died,
thrust a paper in my hand;
she looked at me
as if i would burst any second,
like i was a monster.

my skin felt like a blank canvas,
wiped of paint.
i wished to leave.

she pointed at the paper.
gave me
an ink pen—
closed the door
hurriedly,
to leave.

my fingers shook with grief:
i could barely comprehend the inked
letters swimming on the page.

"do you feel bad about yourself?"
it asked.

i frowned.

there were two choices;
yes,
and
no.

i crossed the question out
altogether.

"have you ever thought to yourself
that you are better off dead?"
it asked.

i trembled.
i looked up at an unforgiving ceiling.
i sank my feet in the ground,
looked at that mirror,
and said to myself,
no one cares about you,
and you would at least be happy
if you were dead.

i ripped the paper
in three pieces
and did not find the strength
within me
to cry any longer.

when my mother came in,
i did not glance up.

i closed my eyes,
wishing i could do the same
for my ears
when she started shrieking at me;
she shouted questions
she knew i could not answer:
what was the matter with me?
was i crazy?
did i want to embarrass her?
she asked.

i looked up at her
and waited.

would i be better off dead?

was there anyone here who would even
care?

maybe.

i pressed my hands to my cheeks
and breathed.

maybe this would all be over soon.

maybe there would be something
good for me,
loving for me,
caring for me
later on.

Lavender had always believed in hope,
and second chances.

was i worthy of a second chance?

maybe i was.

maybe my life had been waiting
for this storm to pass,
and maybe this was it—
i could start again.

so i stood
and brushed the wet soil off my knees
and got back in my car
and drove on
towards a thousand years of growth—
body and soul.

—lana