I'm slowly getting used to the way your hands feel like an open wound.

The contents pouring out of your fingertips are more self-righteous than I dare to be, and I have apologized to your palms as many times as I've sent letters to the back of your hands.

I am not asking for your testimonials, only what comes after them.

We share secrets in the form of car crashes, and what is tragedy but another name for the way your shoulders hold up your neck.

Burial grounds are just a disguise for the ruin your heart left; I want to be as close to Truth as she'll allow me to be and that's still not close enough.

I feel like I am breathing around a broken tongue when I'm around you so I keep talking to your wallpaper because I want to be in pain so often that it becomes comfortable. Lucky for me your chest feels a lot like a hospital bed.

I drew a highway map on all the parts of you you can't see; I'm hoping that one day, you'll take yourself apart just to find me.

I am hoping that one day, you can read the backs of your hands as well as I can.

I've collected so much angst in the form of sweaty palms that I'm beginning to think that you're every other page in my diary.

I hope you don't get too mad about the ink stains I left on your rib cage, or the ones I didn't leave anywhere else.

I can't hold you for much longer, but I hope you'll still need my hands even when they're damaged.