If I could be anything I would be the imprint your bodyweight leaves in your mattress when you pick yourself up (again). I would like to be the curve of your back when you're tired and it's late, but there's still work to do, and the way your shoulders start to cave under your sense of obligation. I want to be the way your heart breaks when your father calls, and the knowledge that he will never love you like I do. I want to be the cracks in the tiles where the ground split open under the weight of the sadness you discard on the bathroom floor every time you step into your shower. I want to be the misery that runs down your drain as you wash away the dusty coating this world has left on your skin. I want to be the place your eyes wander to when you can't look at me: the broken sight of your self-loathing. And when the acid in your stomach has torn through the dwindling reserves of your tangled sense of place, I would be the anchor restraining the winds that rush through your sails. If I could be anything, I would be the way you inhale every time I leave, and the gravity that I'll never understand that brings you back to me.