Not saints.
Not angels.
Just girls with chipped nails
and lip gloss smudged from making out with the wrong men.
They didn’t know my last name.
Didn’t need to.
They saw my knees hit tile
and moved like instinct.
One held my hair like a rosary,
murmured “you’re okay”
like scripture.
Another dabbed at mascara trails
with a cocktail napkin,
called me “babe” like she meant it.
We were strangers
in a holy place—
a bar bathroom
with piss on the floor
and god in the mirror.
She told me
he wasn’t worth it.
Told me my eyeliner still looked good.
Told me to block his number
and wear the red dress next time anyway.
I’ve never forgotten her.
Any of them.
The girls who didn’t ask
but showed up
with gum,
with water,
with warmth,
with rage if I needed it.
There’s a kind of love
that doesn’t demand your best self—
just whatever pieces you have left
on a bad Tuesday at midnight.
And maybe I never got their names,
but I remember their eyes,
their voices,
their steadiness
in a world that keeps spinning too fast.
They held more than my hair.
They held space.
Held silence.
Held me
together.
Heather Kays is a St. Louis-based poet and author passionate about writing since age 7. Her memoir, Pieces of Us, dissects her mother’s struggles with alcoholism and addiction. Her YA novel, Lila’s Letters, focuses on healing through unsent letters. She runs The Alchemists, an online writing group, and enjoys discussing creativity and complex narratives.
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