▲bby

You don’t.

You stop treating her like a problem to be solved,

stop searching for the equation

of how to make her feel better.

There is none.

You lose the term damaged goods and find the words

You are still beautiful no matter what.

You stop plucking the petals off daisies in a circle

of your closest friends like a seance

to figure out if she still loves him despite

what he did to her body.

You accept that this is none of your business.

You stop destroying flowers

and start helping her grow instead.

You don’t give up on her, because Jupiter has

over 63 moons, yet no one measures its worth

in numbers, only by the way it manages to exist

in a perfect vacuum.

You don’t measure her worth by the number of times

her skin was occupied without her permission.

She is still Europa, and Ganymede, and Callisto.

He is not the only one who still remains inside her.

She is full of birdsong and gunpowder and sparklers

and bridges and Sunday morning writing sessions

on a typewriter so old the keys crack like a spine.

There is a tree growing inside her stomach.

Even after the winter strips it of its leaves,

summer after summer,

Met Gala 2015 by Hayden Williams

Beyoncé wearing Givenchy Haute Couture

Justin Bieber wearing Balmain HOMME FW15

Kim Kardashian West wearing Roberto Cavalli