Toolbox

The first time I saw her, she was hunched over,
Glasses too big for her face, and bangs that begged to be trimmed
They covered over her large, seemingly expressionless eyes,
The glasses and hair were a system, a shield to hide a scared little girl

I asked her a question.
She shrugged, rolling those deep and empty eyes.
It was so strange
Strange to see someone so young carry such sadness,
As if the world had already drained her care away.

But as I got to know her, the glasses came off.
Her hair, once a curtain, was tucked neatly behind her ear.
When I entered the room, a smile replaced her blank stare.

One day, I asked her what she does
When the darkness settles in,
When her shoulders slump,
When her eyes turn hollow, and her mind grows dim.
“What’s in your toolbox?” I asked.

She said she loves to draw, to write songs, to journal.
Then she looked down
Down at her hands, bruised, etched with cuts and tiny scars.
Her skin told a story of battles,
Not with others but with herself.

She looked up, those deep, empty eyes meeting mine,
And said, “This is in my toolbox.”

Who hurt you, little girl?
Who taught you to turn your pain inward,
To carve your struggles into your own skin?