One Hour Too Late

Why the fuck weren’t you there an hour ago?

Just one.

Sixty goddamn minutes.

-

An hour ago, I still looked like a person.

Sort of.

As much as a girl can, wearing innocence like borrowed clothes—

threadbare, stained,

stitched together by the hands of the man Mom married,

who barged in once she was gone

and took everything I was,

until there was nothing left of my body I could call mine.

-

You want poetry?

Here it is:

my childhood was redressed in silence

and the smell of someone else’s skin.

-

Then there was him.

Camera man.

Promises like teeth—rotted, obvious.

You could’ve seen it.

You should’ve.

But you didn’t.

(Did you?)

-

Maybe you passed me on the curb.

Saw me get into the van.

Thought: “Poor thing. Must be a model gig.”

Or maybe, no.

You didn’t think at all.

-

But if you’d stopped—just once—

if you’d said don’t,

thrown me a goddamn twenty,

and said fuck the film, just go, girl—go anywhere but with him—

offered anything but indifference—

you could’ve spared me the crawl.

The blood.

The gap between who I was an hour ago

and what’s left breathing now.

-

But no.

-

Now you show up.

On your way back from wherever.

You see me—finally—and stop the car.

Concern in your eyes.

Urgency in your bloody hands.

You lift me from the ditch,

where I crawled out of the woods,

skirt gone, skin torn,

bleeding from too many places.

But alive.

Technically.

-

You pick me up.

Like I’m precious. Like you matter.

You don’t mind the blood I leave on your leather—

your hero’s badge for tomorrow.

-

Now you’ll rush me to the hospital.

You’ll leave after the report’s filed.

They call my guardian.

Guess who picks up.

-

Yeah.

-

He’ll thank you.

Smile at you.

Tell you he was worried sick.

Then take me home.

And he won’t wait for the stitches to settle

before crawling back into my room.

-

So no.

Don’t ask why I’m quiet.

Don’t ask why I won’t cry.

And don’t expect a fucking thank you, saviour.

Blame it on shock. Concussion. Whatever.

(Just ignore the fire in my swollen eye.)

Just—

don’t go sniffing for a redemption arc

in the back seat of your righteous fucking mercy.

-

You were one hour too late.

And that’s all it takes.

To kill a life.

To bury a girl.

And leave the rest crawling.

.