The spaces between these six walls are cold and tight but your blue skin spits--
Marbles of sweat appear on the surface of your eyes, bags of amethyst, circles of mauve.

White hot amber muscle covets your pupils, no bigger than that pin they've spent eternity looking for in some haystack and I wonder if they will ever see me again.

Long quivering exhales draw attention to your shallow rising chest.
I can hear you choking on something, something as you lay among our mother’s silverware and a coiled leather snake, constricting, suffocating your pale forearm.

My eyelids slam shut, whose eyelashes like fingers clutching each other for dear life—desperately trying to spare me from what they believe I might see.

Usually your eyelids squint after being forced upward by your cheeks--forced upward by your cunning grin but they do not squint now.
Last month we hadn't spoken in a month but you held your hand out and asked me if I wanted the world as if it wasn't written all over my face.

I feed off of your charisma like I've never eaten before like I've never felt the sadness that accompanies forgiving you knowing it will only be for a month. I’m replacing your anguish with sugar pills—I consume by putting pills in your mouth, and I’m begging you to hold them down even if it takes both hands.

You can’t speak, but I can hear you—struggling to swallow all of the glass placed quietly between the walls of your throat—a new piece left everyday, by every day you said not today.