I see your bare collar bone.
The chassis of you.
Your shoulders stiff
from lifting too long.
Your ribs—tight—
holding in breath
to call out life.

I'm going to take you home.
It’s okay. No one will see.
We’ll hide it with a necktie,
drape it in my sleeves.
I’ll walk you there
with my ****** ache
and shoes worn thin
from leaving places too fast.

We should hurry.
My wrists are tired.
They shake from the inside.
My marrow is dusted with fear.
Osteoporosis, they said—
but it’s just a word
for how I’ve been crumbling
before anyone noticed.

I wanted to carry you.
But my bones—
they fold under me.
I have enough ache
just holding myself.
Still,
I want to take you home.
I will strip myself bare
beneath the sun if I must,
but I cannot let you
see my bones.