There is poison in these veins we share. There are cracks in our skin, fissures that threaten the bridge between these two homes. You may not see them, and I don’t have the heart to tell you, but there are bruises that have been there since the beginning of time. There is no blood anymore: I cleaned it, like the good girl I was always told to be.

Did you see the box that said Fragile?


I was 15 when I trusted you. Now I am much older, but I love you just as much, maybe more, than back then. But I don’t trust you. I trust numbers more than I would ever trust a man. Maybe you already figured that part out.


There is poison in these veins we share. I feel it, and how could I not?


Maybe there is no monster in you. Maybe it is just inside my closet, underneath the bed where I have all the nightmares. But what if there is? What if there is poison in your hands like there is in your lips when you talk to her?


You will have to forgive me – or I guess you don’t have to, and maybe you wouldn’t – but I cannot keep my eyes off your knuckles, and I am scared. I am scared because the box said  F R A G I L E , and I want to keep loving you. I want to love you like I loved you when I did not know the numbers, when I hadn’t memorized the hotlines, when you hadn’t raised your voice.


I just want you to know that this is still fragile. Handle with care.


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