This wraith of a girl—held together
with old twine and fishing line,
hidden in the folds of the way
her hospital gown hangs forlorn over
her toes—is the most romantic,
the most perfect thing, the most
silent lover until she screams, but
her screams can always be covered.
Nobody will know the difference,
when scars mar her appearance, if
you tell her that the gashes
in her skin are beautiful, that will
be the most romantic thing. This
is the girl who writes letters with
a shaky pen, checking her pulse
and pulling her hair lest the letters
drive her mad again, she is the
doll on the whispering shelf, where
you drop your secrets and trust
she won’t tell. She is pale and
frail and she can break in an instant,
but illness is romantic, isn’t it? 

4:57 pm  •  24 October 2012