Falling to the floor, it was wet from all of the tears that ran down the face of a little girl.

The screams of who was right and wrong bled through the wall with anger.

The walls enclosed a little girl hiding under her bed. 

The bed was her comfort but now had been burned by the voices. 

The voices of love turned to hate with a blink of her eyes.

“You’re too thin.”

“Stand straight.”

“Be better.”

She tightened her waist to make it seem like it was not there;

like the cuts on her wrist were not there, 

like the tears weren’t there, 

like she wasn’t there.

But yet,

she still stood there, 

so the nights that the blade came back to haunt, her she tired to run;  

but 

she wouldn’t run anymore, 

she wouldn’t hide anymore,

she wouldn’t be better.

She wouldn’t fall.

She stood tall with the words that had hurt her clawing at her back. 

She stood with the power from the lost tears on the floor. 

She turned back the time that had been lost. 

She built herself, 

she loved herself, 

she cared for herself,

she healed herself, and

she loved herself.