~ 13 yEaRz ~

It’s been thirteen years
since she was barefoot
on the sidewalk
of Walnut Street,
steps from a place she paid to sleep—
but never a home.

Police tested her;
    she failed
        every marker
            of sobriety
      that night,
and the humid nights
and sweaty days before.

It’s been thirteen years since then;
recovery has entered puberty—

its bones ache,
growing too fast,
stretch marks where
the body couldn’t keep up—
reminders we can never go back
to before. Those tough girls we
pretended to be are gone,
like our teenage selves
and our child bodies,
never to return.

It’s been thirteen years
and a whole other lifetime—
so let that girl from the past
    go downtown
        in the handcuffs
with her charges in the police car.

That's not us.
            Not anymore.

Be patient; I'm only 13 years old.
The woman I am now was born that night.