I try to think of things to say to you,
things that might make you feel better.
I wish I'd had better things to say.
it's just that when we're
together and quiet
the silence is a lullaby tells me
'You don't have to say anything'
and I muse on its elusive melody
and I realise that
it's the sound of your breathing.

I told him how weird it was for us to
be together because
our lives rest on opposite ends of
the spectrum and
I'm not sure how we
still managed to find a way to each other,
but maybe this is one of
God's unfathomable plans
and as long as we still
have each other
I thank God for him, I truly do.

I remember you tracing the
scars on my arm
and how soft your thumb was
against my skin,
like maybe it would be enough to
rub away the damage;
then I remembered the hate and disgust
I had for myself,
the nights I dragged the blade across
the canvas of my flesh
and the relief that embraced me
when the paint started dripping
like rain on a dreary night.
I wished for my body
to defy the rules of biology (is it?);
for my cells not to clog together
to stop the bleeding,
because all I wanted was for my
pain to paint the world in red
and to show everyone my contempt
and perhaps
make them feel it too.