He never told you much
about the drugs, or
the kid who got out
the easy way.
He never really told you
how ****** up he'd been,
between highs and lows,
the arrests or the fights,
how he limped his life--
splitting out by
the seams--
into somewhere far away
where he could
stitch it all together
and ignore the scars.

He never told you how badly
his heart got pummeled.
He never told you how he didn't
stop that ******* kid from getting
into that driver's seat.
He never told you how hard
that hit him.
He never told you that it all
came at the wrong time.
He never told you about
the medicine cabinets.
He never told you about
the vultures.

He never told you why
he doesn't get too drunk,
why he's afraid of himself,
the way you are
but for different reasons.
How scared of falling apart he is,
especially now with you around.
Why he puts on that mask;
that face you've grown to hate.
He never told you how
stupid he was,
or how scared he is of you
because the power you hold.

He didn't tell you
a lot of it
because he thought
it seemed too trivial,
seemed too inane,
to give voice to.
He only sat there,
finally far away from home,
sewing and stitching
and smiling,
laughing off any questions.
And now he seems back together,
but still only by thin stitching.
It breaks on occasion,
so he's so glad to have you,
because you see the stitches
and see the scars,
unfortunately,
but don't seem to mind too much,
and he may not say it a lot
but god it was nice to
just be loved,
even if only for a short time.

So thank you, for
sticking around as
long as you did.
Thank you,
on his behalf.