your hands are golden
and as frail as dry leaves.
your collar bone sends me
into a  breath bend, so I follow
the traces of your fingers on my stomach
and the crooked fragments of your once broken bones.
you've got a nervous segment of thought,
I can feel as you attempt to shake it out,
**** thoughts, you send waves of telepathy and I'm molten.

your illusions are being built on ladders,
as thin as your legs, and my fingers.
you've captured a foot, slammed into the back of each knee
and you don't lose balance.
swallowing poison, tastes good.
happiness overwhelms your senses.
everything seems better when you're killing yourself.
brain screaming: this is it!
might as well do all the things you're afraid of.

commit to a struggle for strategy.
all lined up, dressed in slept-in jeans.
you're more tired than you'd dare to admit
because your weakness is fatal. too much of yourself
locked in that tower you climb so flawlessly.
slime walls and all.
you offer me the chance to climb, not something I'd grasp
until I lost my mind, slip down the side, fall behind, leave you with time
and come back to lay on the cement around your corners.

I bring you a flower, a simple response to my own thought.
a gesture of love, of friendship, forgiveness and fear.
I'd write you something beautiful if you deserved it.
in the holding back of words, I found that if I'm writing about you
then it doesn't mean it's for you.
I can't help who I love, just as I can't help what I fear.
call me a baby, but don't call me yours.
hold me when you want to, I wont miss you until I'm there.

let me become a little less of what sickens me.
let myself break through shadows and soak midnight moon
through my half darkened, thoroughly searching eyes.