Rehab

Rehab

Her bandaged arms are thin and weak
below her rolled-up shirt-sleeves.
Her lips tremble when she speaks,
“these scars help me feel alive”.
In this cold, clinical room
where her only friends are metal folding chairs,
a beautiful young girl is reclaiming herself.
She lost it once, to a boy with soft kisses,
who held her close and whispered
“I will always love you”
but never meant it.
She lost it again, to a bottle of booze,
a handful of pills and a hospital stay,
her mother crying and her father walking away.
But it was the third time she lost it,
that landed her here,
in between the girl who never talks
and the boy who screams at night.
She took the razor to her fragile wrists,
leaving behind nothing but blood-stained bathroom tiles,
a tear-stained note crumpled in her hand.
Her father cried the entire time
as he carried her the three blocks to the hospital.
But now she is finally recapturing her hope,
with every word she chooses so carefully
“I don’t want to hurt anymore”.
She is too thin, too scared,
her hands shake but it’s just the drugs,
she’s crying.
They don’t understand, they never could,
and once they’ve all gone,
she is left dropping tears on the tiled floor.
And in the morning she’ll be gone.