Do not drag her over to the kitchen sink and force her to scrub her hands
with lye soap: she is not the dirty one. She is not the one
who did something unclean. But don’t be sad; be angry.
Let rage harden within you like a hard kernel until it expands
and grows like popcorn, until you prowl like a dog at night
across the floor with clenched fists, ready to spit in the face of injustice.
Do not be the mother that treats her daughter’s unraveling
like a ball of yarn that will one day wind itself back together;
instead, help her learn how to direct her blame like knitting needles
at the person who hurt her instead of at herself.
When she cries, do not offer her a glass of water and rub her back
and think that after a good drink it will all go away.
This is a thirst that is never fully quenched.
Most importantly, never call her a liar.
If she’s a liar, why, then, stars are just God’s projectile vomit
after a particularly bad night at the heavenly bar, right?
If the cops ask what she was wearing on that night,
take them up to her bedroom and open the closet with pride,
revealing every purple tank top and pair of shorts,
then as they nod knowingly at the display, pull the black hoodie
and sweatpants from behind your back with a flourish,
like a rabbit being sucked out of a magician’s hat.
Learn how to read her silences and sighs
and don’t pressure her into talking about anything
when her throat is choked with the weight of bad memories-
sometimes, quiet is the best therapy.
And no matter what you do, don’t ever tell her she was “asking for it.”
That’s the kind of question
that doesn’t even deserve an answer.