How to love me.
When you caress my hand between yours, running your thumb along the mountains and canyons of my knuckles, try not to find the shame pooling like rivers into the cracks of my skin. Try not to notice the ragged, bitten edges of the nails tipping my middle and pointer fingers. Try to still its trembling.
When you run your hands through my hair, try not to notice the chunks of it that crumble away during the rockslide of my mind and slither along the sweat shimmering on your forearm. Try not to notice its refusal to shine-it was seduced by stale greys and weary greens. Try to stop its thinning.
When you run your tongue along the roof of my mouth, tracing the grooves of the space that is so often empty, try not to notice the copper pennies towering on your taste buds as the wound opens and the blood falls. Try not to notice how dry it is, as if I’d been swallowing your exhalations instead of your tears. Try to soothe its scarring.
When you wake up in the middle of the night and see the indent of my body curled like a shadow of you in my space, try not to notice the sound of the water spilling lies in the bathtub-the faucet’s getting too old for pretending (don’t worry I’ll clean it up, I’ll clean it all up). Try not to notice the sound of my throat trying to close before my self-hate rushes through it, singing the sides with bile. Try to silence its killing.
Keep trying. And when you can’t anymore, try not to notice my eyes, red as the rawness of my throat, when you leave. Try to stall its ending.