She stretched her sleeves to cover them.
The knife cut deep on her scarred thighs.
I said I didn't mind that she hurt
Herself. Still, the hand covered the bruise.

She ate little. The mirror scoffed
Still. "Fine!" I'd say. "I'll eat alone."
I said I didn't mind that she starved
herself. Still, the hand covered the bruise.

I wish I pulled her hand.
I wish I didn't just speak.
Lately I can't eat too.
My hand covers the bruise.

the initial impact
the ruptured vessels
crying crimson
pooling up underneath the surface of your
fragile flesh
soft, breakable unlike the iron
that flows through you

then a swell
of black and blue
of violent violets
a nebula to remind you that you
                                                          are not invincible
                                                          are not invulnerable
                                                          will one day turn to dust,
a star of lost oxygen
tender to the touch

then the healing
a green gradation
yellowed edges
the swelling going down
the knowledge that nothing is permanent        

that even your bruises pale
even your blood decays
even the galaxy imprinted on your skin can explode, collapse,
lost infinitely in infinity

the knowledge that even as you are getting better,
you are fading like the bruise
that once stained your skin

My joints ache.
They are cold and still,
tired from lack of use.
My joints ache to hold you,
to enfold you into the
cracks between
my bones.
Between my bones there is

space

where you would fit.

My joints ache.
Hunching, they are
crude in contrast,
rough
in comparison to your own.

They creak and groan
as they act out this dance,
almost forgotten steps slow
to form.

My joints
ache.

I am broken.

there is nothing
beautiful about that.

brokenness is painful
and ugly and terrifying.

but no matter what,
I do not need you to
piece me back together.



yes, I am broken.

but I don't need
to be fixed.