It is 3 a.m. and I am feeling the bones of my ribcage,
The way they try to burst through my skin,
Hipbone daggers and collarbone cliffs.
It is 3 a.m. and I am thinking about a boy with smooth dark skin,
A knit hat that he wore even in summer,
The bright white stretch of his smile, his smile,
How he smiled even as he was dying.
He was my friend and the cancer ate him alive.

It is 3 a.m. and I am thinking about a girl,
The scars that nestle themselves into her thin skin,
The way she devoured a bottle of pills,
The way she cut until she bled herself near to dry,
The way she tried to vomit and starve her way to oblivion.
And I love her, I love her, I love her.

It is 3 a.m. and I am thinking about myself,
How I was so sure I was ready to die for the longest time.
How I starved until I was a whittled skeleton,
How I went dizzy through days without sleep,
How I cried and cried until I formed an ocean.
It is 3 a.m. and I have seen death crawl in through the window,
Chewing up and spitting out my laughing boy and fearless girl,
Taking a bite out of me, testing.

It is 3 a.m. and I am thinking about the years ahead,
And the friends whom I love with such a ferocious love that it is

Bottomless and dark
And the girl whom I have the potential to rip out my own heart for,
And the way my bones, my bones and my flesh have become

Something like a home.

It is 3 a.m. and I want to live.