I only want her well.
I don't need her to love me back.
I just need her to wake up tomorrow and feel
the music run through her again.

I will take the rest—
the unwell—the blade in her stomach
that never quite learned how to leave,
the thoughts that keep chewing on her silence,
that want to make her erase herself.

I will take that—
I will wear it like a coat in November,
find the ghosts that did this,
and let them suffocate me,
if it means she gets one breath
that doesn't feel like drowning.

She flinches when joy gets too close,
and how can I fix that—
become the quiet room she needs
when her world is screaming.

Take my hands,
take my bones,
take the best parts of me
and build her a raft.
Take all the poetry left in me
and build her a sail.
Let me be her landfill,
her rainstorm,
her broken umbrella.

If she ever asks
why I took all her unwell—
tell her when I loved her
I didn't want her to be mine—
I just wanted her well.