I see her.

Not everyday, but I see her enough to know. I know what she looked like, as if I was outside of my body. a stranger even. She wore a green Blink 182 shirt and ripped jeans….Actually ripped, not bought like that ripped, with a studded belt. I see her every time I stare too long in the mirror. Her nose is covered in dried blood, and face is swollen. I see her sitting in the circle every class we teach. Eyes puffy and sticky from crying, although I never remember crying. At this point she’s accepting death, welcoming it even. I see her every time I’m proud of how far I’ve come. She’s all I ever write about. I see her every time I’m weak. She haunts me. She’s cold and limp. It’s dark. She’s making circles with her croaked fingers on the stained carpet floor. I see her. I see the life she had flash before her eyes. I should free her, help her out but I never do. I only join her. I climb into the trunk and hold her. Burring my face in between her soar shoulder blades. Apathetically sad, weak and hopeless. I see her. I still see her every time I start to forget about. Every time the oil smell seems too far away. The seconds and minutes. The hours and days feel never ending. Did they ever really end or are we still laying in that trunk together? I see her. I tuck her once beautiful hair behind her ear and tell her I got you. I love you and I will never stop fighting for you.