I don’t know what I would say
the first time she pushed away
an uneaten plate at dinner and said
“I’m full”
when it’s written all over her face how
empty she feels inside.

And
I don’t know what I would do
the first time I noticed blood
dried on her razor and
neat criss cross scratches
where I used to grab
her tiny wrists when she was
still too young for the world
to infiltrate the towers of love
I had spent years
erecting around her.

I don’t know if I would be able to
stop myself from crumbling inside,
wondering all the places I made
the wrong turn
too late or too soon—
I don’t remember which one.

Maybe
I would wrap my arms around her tightly
the way I used to before she learned
that the people we love the most
are the same ones who hurt us the
the most.

I would rock her shaking body gently
the way I used to when the scariest
thing about the outside world was the way how
lightning bolts seemed to set the sky on fire
at night.

No matter what,
She would still try to push me away,
that I know.

It would take all the strength left in
my aging bones to not shatter from
the imprints of her cold hands against
my flesh.

But,
I would only hang on tighter.
I would grasp her by her ankles to keep
her feet planted on the ground and
hold her up by her shoulders
so when the weight of the world comes
crashing down,
she doesn’t have to stand against it alone.

I couldn’t let go.
Not until she learned to hold onto life
all alone.

Even then,
I would still stay by her side.