To my young self

I would bow down on my knees
and tell her
to hold herself
put her arms around herself
to forgive what happened
to stop the running myth of an idealized child
I would tell her to stop running from the pain
I would tell her that she is doing a great job
that she is braver than most
but not made of stone
I would plead with her
not to see her life, her face
reflected off a man

I would tell her to sit
and weep
and curl into a ball
I would show her that few have seen what she had to see
that few have survived the face she had to witness
I would tell her its okay to sometimes just lie in bed
and let the hours pass, waiting for a better day.