Kid

You tell me not to worry

about the broken skin on your knuckles.

Like I should pretend I don’t know what

it’s like

to think I can win a fight with a wall

just to be proven wrong after throwing

the first punch.

You brush aside

the burn marks on your arm

like they are normal.

As if I hadn’t used my own as ash trays

on more nights than I could count.

You cover up your scars

and pretend they don’t exist.

But we both know how hard

it is to stop them from defining

who you are becoming.

You want so desperately to be alone.

You want so desperately to handle this

on your own.

I get it.

I want you to know

you’re not.