I can’t hold up my body anymore. It has been melting down my spine since its existence and now I can’t keep up.

My eyes won’t reach the ground. They stay elevated, as if unable to acknowledge what lies melted on the earth. As if doing so would take away their sight. As if doing so, would mean that the pain isn’t real.

I would never ask you to stare at my feet. You’d miss everything. You wouldn’t be able to greet people who walk past like you do, or see how beautiful the world can be. You would be trapped. Your eyes would be scarred. They wouldn’t be the color brown that I love— they would be strained with something I fear.

I didn’t know that what I was doing wasn’t healing. But how should I have known, with a soul so tender she can be broken with one breath out of place. So I hold my breath. Promising her I won’t break and all the while knowing that it’s a promise I can’t keep.

So I watch my body melt. Melt with broken promises and a failure to recognize the support it craves. Because it wants to pretend it’s filled with steel when really, it’s hollow.

You want to hold my body up with your hands. Your weight, you say, is strong enough. You promise to fill my hollow walls.

But you’re not the first, and that’s something you have to know. Many have taken their hands and tried to push my soul back together. Fill my walls. But not one has been structurally sound. Who gave you permission to surpass them? Who gave you the strength not to leave?