As you change into the black top
you prefer to wear out,
I sneak a glance
to check the status
of the skinny scars
inflicted by the blade you keep
tucked under your mattress,
Old wounds mingle with new
across your gaunt olive skin,
a permanent morse code
telling the story of a pyro-botanist
who can't let herself grow.

I glance back up
at your now-empty smile
and ponder the irony
of a middle name like Mirth.