First published by She is Kindred

She’s the one you don’t hesitate to text or call
or just
show up on her doorstep,
suitcase in the trunk, packed with bras
that have been outgrown,
the green shirt with the hole
that you can’t bring yourself to toss,
and a marriage that has expired,
rotted past its good-until date.

She’s the one who hears
through your words,
finds the tremble in your “I’m fines”
and hangs on
until the static has cleared and the truth
lays raw, naked
tissues and muscle and flesh,
but still
doesn’t say
you shouldn’t have.

She’s the one who holds your tequila-stained hair
in the bathroom stall
and your hand
when you can’t steady it for fear of losing more
than your balance and your secrets
when they topple you
into a tumbleweed of doubt and scorn and
never-good-enoughness.

She’s the one who will always
listen, accept, never criticize,
never tell but rather show you
the beauty you can’t see without her boost.
She reflects your spirit, says without saying:
this is you,
and I’ve got you.