i want to dig the crevices of my heart clean,
wash it in a cool stream, hand it to you like it's new.
i'll stitch the broken seams and ignore the film over my eyes.
but i know that you would never accept that.
you want to run your fingers through the scars and solve the maze
you don't want just the good parts, or the masks, or the band aids.
you don't need the film that covers my eyes.
you want openness, a shared burden; you need a hiding place
there exists a certain kind of emptiness, a hunger,
that comes with thinking alone and breathing in dusty air.
it is bone deep and aching, a sickness that holds no remedy
but company; twined limbs, soft words, and Earl Grey.
the worst thing to be is alone. i am wrapped in soft fleece
over bony arms. cradling myself, it is almost enough.
hold my hand. we can't say we've never given anything.
freckles make a lovely pattern, tracing them with soft fingertips
a quiet smile is shared and that alone heals.
if this is a mistake, let it be made.