Hope Resurfaces For the Girl at Greggs
I saw your forearm as you got my sausage roll
from the hot counter and placed it in a brown bag.
The long line of cuts from your wrist to your elbow
a message, a plea, a cry for help, a hashtag
to the like-minded of life blighted by self-harm.
I would never have known from your warm smile, charming
service that you suffered any mental anguish
of some kind. Yet there they were; neither new nor old
scars, but that bright red in between-ness where you wish
they didn’t itch so much and the relief of cold
water felt like the slow resurfacing of hope
to bring you back to life, to manage, to cope.
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