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.

They said you were too much.
Too loud.
Too soft.
Too strange.
Too broken.

So you went quiet.
Folded in.
Stopped answering to your name.

Your parents didn’t just hurt.
They broke more than bones.
Your friends carved scars.
You stayed in pieces.
The world walked past you.
You stayed still.
Like a glass left on the edge.

But she mattered.
Before anyone looked.
Before they cared.

I watched you shrink.
Corners were safer
Than most people.
I didn’t stop you.
I let you disappear.

Then you came back.
You laughed.
I kept it like a coin.
Your voice—shifting when excited—
I remembered.
No one asked me to.
I just did.

The little things vanish.
But not from me.
You mattered.
Before they said so.

They were wrong.
You weren’t thunder.
You weren’t pain.
You were a person
Wanting to be seen.

Stand.
Even if no one holds you.
Even if the sky looks away.
I will hold you.
Even if I can’t fix it.
Just pretend I can.

You mattered.
You always did.
And I wish I said it.