If the skin on my hands got thinner for every time I let a boy hold them,

I'd be bleeding. Torn to the bone.

If I had kept my hands to myself like a secret, then I could've held you

Without staining you with my past. Now I'm alone,

And I'm sorry. I would offer my shoulder, or the bend of my elbow

But those edges and parts of mine are worn down, too.

I stand in front of you, barely together; a corpse.

I understand why I am not considered at all, but I beg to be healed

Just to be considered by you.