You called me, crumpled like origami paper in the hands of a child.

I acted as an adult would, gave structure to your scrunched-up form,

tried to ignore the creases my fingers couldn’t smooth. 

There was an intimacy here,

I glimpsed the face well-acquainted with the cotton cover of your pillowcase,

no trace of the familiar bravado that often lingered on your lips.

Bare of anything but salt, you kissed tears into clenched fists.

I knew you carried too much too young,

it was evident in the perpetual give of your shoulders and fold of your back,

like your spine had been fractured somewhere between then and now 

so you were stuck, trying to convince it it wasn’t broken.

I let my limbs act as braces, I held you straight as you cried out 

sounds too heavy and bitter for the fragile casing of a sentence.

There was so much internal bruising,

and my band aids were ineffective

because there was no surface bleeding, which is to say, 

that the brain is a manipulator 

and the body is gullible

and sometimes we sustain damage too awful for the skin to comprehend.

Our minds take advantage of this ignorance, convincing health

into our voices and complexions 

as we implode,

drugging our suffering before our lips can articulate our pain.

Seeing you reminds me that definitions are not always accurate.

That mouths can curve and teeth can gleam and cheeks can dimple

but these actions don’t always constitute a smile 

because I see you practice these movements through habit, but honestly?

(I can’t remember the last time you were really happy)

I tell you that I love you, but my affection was never the one in question, so instead

I let my collarbone collect your tears.

Your exhaustion is palpable, and I trick myself into thinking it’s because you hardly sleep.

You are always saying you don’t have much time left, so I give you all of mine.

and I pray you choose to stay.