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I don't want to remember the day you turned sixteen
coming to school with a bandaged arm
trying to hide it under a sweater, but
attracting uncomfortable glances,
questions and accusations.
I don't want to remember you locking yourself
in the bathroom stall,
hearing the unraveling of toilet paper,
then brush against your broken skin,
seeing you open the door, smiling,
ready to return to class.
I don't want to remember your self mutilation
confusing close friends and family,
forcing us to ask ourselves what we did wrong.
I wanted to forget about you falling
asleep in the hall,
exhausted after staying up
to study the entire night
because you have to be as good as
would have to be punished.
Tired of trying so hard to understand your actions,
sick of always hearing this time
you couldn’t control it
but next time
it would be different.
Pamela