A pair of scissors, too dull to cut paper at ten.

The phone cord tugged loose at sixteen, razor

cold silver framed in stark relief between hardwood

floors and quick-bit flesh. Alone and lonely on

a concrete island, the sun beating down bright

on your shoulders—the stop light glaring, a bus

screeching close enough to touch—even as your feet

kept carrying you forward. You were a few short months

shy of twenty-three but you made it to the other side

of the street. And again, years later, midnight draped

on either side of a bridge you crossed, white-knuckled

and sobbing for thirty-minutes, when a normal day

would have taken you just ten; your bones brittle

beneath skin that hadn’t felt right in weeks. 

I was there, little one. Did you feel me walking

in your shadow? How I whispered gently: Not here. Not now.

Not yet.

The best is yet to come. I promise.

—N.

written 06162024, revised 12062024