in the house
where sweet tulip roots fed off rotten wood,
where dark, faded mirrors
watched her cold breaths tremble,
where scars ran deep like poisoned blood
and shouts echoed through the veined walls;

the frozen tile still warmed as her feet brushed ground
and bluebirds puckered from her saccharine nectar
as the blossoms peaked their eyes
and the windows creaked,
full of promise.

seven years and we sprinted through tall grass fields,
wind chimes twinkling at each heave of breath
and thin strands of gold-spun hair glistening
like dew on morning leaves.

eight years and we climbed the tallest tree,
rough bark cutting into smooth skin
and fragrant scents of newborn pine sheathing
the smell of freshly fallen tears.

nine years and she sat on the back of my bike,
wind whipping her frail frame until each bone groaned
and creaked at every brittle secret spilled
from laced lips sewn shut with rusted needles.

and with every passing year,
a sweet drop of youth fell from her mouth into mine,
until smooth skin turned callous and pine and tears
became a sickly new perfume.

thirteen years and i watched her hover in the mirror
and probe her ribs with each pointed finger.
“wouldn’t i be so much better like this?” she said.
i laughed.

fifteen years and she was melting into the earth
as i watched her blow on a daffodil,
every exhale like a sharp knife,
and her newly hollowed cheeks
pulling taut to her bones.

in her house,
the frozen tile stilled as weary feet tread
and windows creaked, a broken whisper
of her lost thread.

i wrapped my fingers over her
thigh, thumb to thumb.

and then there was nothing left to hold.