Nineteen

She carries this bag around with her.

That she carries so much in, her small hands can't hold it anymore, and it's starting to hurt her back.

This big heart sits at the bottom though, she can't leave it alone not for a second. Some of it's a bit torn, broken and glued back. Pieces missing, scattered all over the place.

I can see her holding it in her hand sometimes, and sometimes she pretends it doesn't matter if she ignores it. Let it starve, let it fall to pieces. It's only a game of pretend.

She carries tears, they slosh around inside, rinsing pens and notebooks. Diving into that bag you could bathe in those tears, clear and salty.

In the bag there are words, said and unsaid. Black ink and blue, piling up on pieces of paper or linen, ripping angry words. Words that flutter for love and words that cry for help.

In that bag she carries everything.

All hurt and all joy.

I want to help you carry it.

I don't mind.

I do it with love.