NEVERLAND IS HOME

bro 1: hey dude when were you born

She walked with darkness dripping off her shoulders, I’ve seen ghosts brighter than her soul.

she is the bird you forgot to feed and died in the hands of your nanny, she is a cry that rings in the night, a hurt that beats against the clouds until they say, “alright, alright, alright, we’ll rain if it suits your mood so much,” she’s the rainbow puddle of collected oil, beautiful and whole and entirely without a home   she flinches when you put your hand to her face. she has warning zones: don’t touch her forehead, the tops of her shoulders, the weak parts of her. she flits like a hummingbird between your fingers. never stays too long leaning against you. never really looks you in the eyes. never really lets you hold her.   you say, “you’re beautiful,” she says, “i don’t see that” you say, “you’re hot,” she says, “look at me in better lighting,” you say, “i love you,” she says, “but do you?” but do you? but do you?“ she’s a mirage girl, the kind that flickers in and out of your vision. sometimes it seems like she’s one whole image, and then without warning, she’s gone again. sometimes she lives at half-resolution. sometimes she smells like the ocean, sometimes pollution.   there are too many beehives she’s got clogging up her vocal chords. whenever she tries to speak, she does it in apologies. she does it like she’s waiting for you to shut her up, she does it like it’s defiant even when it shouldn’t be. she is racing heart, she is open sore, she is panic attack if you talk too loud.   she says sorry too much, says thank you too much, holds you just a little bit too tightly. she doesn’t expect you to get her gifts, but she’d give you anything if you asked for it. she is ready for you to leave. she is double-checking that she’s not messing up everything. she says she is toxic more times than you hear her laughing. she says she is the place where somebody else’s bootprint has flattened her out into nothing.   when she does better, she does great. you fall in love with her wild, with her smile, with the way she throws herself at things. when she does better, you want to sew yourself to her. she’s perfect. she’s resilient. if this world is a cold, she is your cure.   but then she goes bad, and when she goes bad, you lose her. it is all darkness from this point forwards. it is all anger and selfhate and sorrow. she whittles herself down, a clown of anxiety and depression miming her own cage that she’s constantly stuck in. your angel girl has become a summit and you are trapped beneath the mountain. everything is: am i doing this right is this okay i stayed up for eight hours to get this essay perfect do you really love me do you care i know you can’t i know you don’t no of course no of course   the people in her life who were supposed to teach her about unconditional love only let her learn that there’s nothing in this world that doesn’t come with conditions. she can’t shake what they made her out of. it will haunt her forever, and you must come ready to handle the ghosts long after the exorcism.   when she panics, hold her hand. when she cries, let her. when you fight with her, don’t strike out around her. when she cannot eat, put food in front of her, don’t make her. when she blames your problems on herself, take them back from her. when she tries to fix herself, remind her that flaws are only natural. she will love you in a way that is incredibly pure, all that need, all that want, all that hope that’s always been denied to her. don’t you dare take advantage of that. only return it to her. when she needs you, when she wants you, when she loves you: return the favor.   when she tells you that she is afraid of being a mirror of who they are, tell her: my love, my light - you are your own star.