I was sick when we met
and you liked it.

My body was airborne, bones of a feather,
jutting out like a blade for you to
run your fingertips across.

I always left at 4am, half raving mad with
exhaustion, the pinprick bleeding, pale exhaustion,
you closing the door as I fell into the night.

You inevitably commented
on the way my ribs arched, taut rise of bones
leering obscene through lean skin.

They were each a transparent edge,
observed my breath was a desperate pant, I
needed help, not blunt trauma to the lips.