you told me that when you were a child,
you loved pulling things apart,
discovering what made them work,
before putting them back together again.
when i was a child, i only ever bothered to take things apart,
to break them.
i wonder if you are with me because
you are trying to put me back together again.
i don't know how to confess to you
that i cannot be fixed, only held.

yellow seems to me
like almost sunshine,
but it's a false
warmth.
it's the colour of old bruises
littered on
arms and legs
like painful
little
kisses,
blossoms of pain
that fade and die,
just like everything
else.

girls with
perfect skin
perfect hair
perfect bodies
perfect clothes
little hands
little wrists
little thighs
lowered eyes
lace
perfume
waxed
and shined
pretty smiles
graceful
elegant
bright
(but not too
bright)
'trophy wives'

(you are sixteen years old and
you are not afraid to die.)

you find it hard to breathe and see and touch,
(but you are not afraid.)

you have never fallen in love,
and never held anyone,
and never been loved,
(but you are not afraid.)

but then
one day you see the sun
and it hurts to look at him,
but you want to touch him
and love him and be loved
(and you are very, very afraid.)

your breath, staccato
in my ear. i wonder if
i have broken you.

how do you know if you truly love someone
or  if you are just glad for their being,
so you don't have to be alone
in the bruise of your existence,
an accident,
a bump on the knee.

sometimes the pain robs
the act of breathing from you
and sometimes living seems so pointless
that you wonder what life
would be like after.
if there really would be a  
heaven, even for you.

when he holds your hand, he doesn't know
that he's the only thing
holding you to this earth.

you are so selfish,
all you do is
take and take and take
from him.