she is the bird you forgot to feed and died in the hands of your nanny, she is a cry that rings in the night, a hurt that beats against the clouds until they say, âalright, alright, alright, weâll rain if it suits your mood so much,â sheâs the rainbow puddle of collected oil, beautiful and whole and entirely without a home
she flinches when you put your hand to her face. she has warning zones: donât touch her forehead, the tops of her shoulders, the weak parts of her. she flits like a hummingbird between your fingers. never stays too long leaning against you. never really looks you in the eyes. never really lets you hold her.
you say, âyouâre beautiful,â she says, âi donât see thatâ you say, âyouâre hot,â she says, âlook at me in better lighting,â you say, âi love you,â she says, âbut do you?â but do you? but do you? sheâs a mirage girl, the kind that flickers in and out of your vision. sometimes it seems like sheâs one whole image, and then without warning, sheâs gone again. sometimes she lives at half-resolution. sometimes she smells like the ocean, sometimes pollution.
there are too many beehives sheâs got clogging up her vocal chords. whenever she tries to speak, she does it in apologies. she does it like sheâs waiting for you to shut her up, she does it like itâs defiant even when it shouldnât be. she is racing heart, she is open sore, she is panic attack if you talk too loud.
she says sorry too much, says thank you too much, holds you just a little bit too tightly. she doesnât expect you to get her gifts, but sheâd give you anything if you asked for it. she is ready for you to leave. she is double-checking that sheâs not messing up everything. she says she is toxic more times than you hear her laughing. she says she is the place where somebody elseâs bootprint has flattened her out into nothing.
when she does better, she does great. you fall in love with her wild, with her smile, with the way she throws herself at things. when she does better, you want to sew yourself to her. sheâs perfect. sheâs resilient. if this world is a cold, she is your cure.
but then she goes bad, and when she goes bad, you lose her. it is all darkness from this point forwards. it is all anger and selfhate and sorrow. she whittles herself down, a clown of anxiety and depression miming her own cage that sheâs constantly stuck in. your angel girl has become a summit and you are trapped beneath the mountain. everything is: am i doing this right is this okay i stayed up for eight hours to get this essay perfect do you really love me do you care i know you canât i know you donât no of course no of course
the people in her life who were supposed to teach her about unconditional love only let her learn that thereâs nothing in this world that doesnât come with conditions. she canât shake what they made her out of. it will haunt her forever, and you must come ready to handle the ghosts long after the exorcism.
when she panics, hold her hand. when she cries, let her. when you fight with her, donât strike out around her. when she cannot eat, put food in front of her, donât make her. when she blames your problems on herself, take them back from her. when she tries to fix herself, remind her that flaws are only natural. she will love you in a way that is incredibly pure, all that need, all that want, all that hope thatâs always been denied to her. donât you dare take advantage of that. only return it to her. when she needs you, when she wants you, when she loves you: return the favor.
when she tells you that she is afraid of being a mirror of who they are, tell her: my love, my light - you are your own star.
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