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    I saw you sitting in the corner, dispelling smoke from your lips; I wanted to float away with it. You were dying, but so was I. I approached you slowly like I was afraid you might run away. But I would follow you, and convince you that everything’s okay.
    We’d talk about the forbidden things—the things that make your eyes ignite, like a burning fire with a never ending supply of oxygen. Those things never really leave your mind, but they never escape from your lips either. You never talk about it. But I want you to, I want you to tell me, make me feel the pain and witness the disgust. I want to know everything.
    You looked up at me, barely lifting your head, and looked away. You let your hair fall down, forming a perfect curtain. You were afraid, but didn’t dare let me know.
    I slid down next you, my elbow brushed your knee, it was gentle like an autumn breeze, yet you flinched. It led me to curiosity. What memory possessed your mine? What demon were you fighting this time?
    Funny, I said, “this time.” It happens a lot, doesn’t it?
    I wanted to find out. I wanted to take the blade that you so often place to your wrist, and carve out your shell with it. Like the rest of you, I’d find your lungs dying. Your skeleton would be cracked. Your brain would be quitting. And I’d find broken things where your heart should be.
    There would be windows, moments, clocks, and jewelry, left to rot in the wishing well of your broken heart. I’d toss in a coin and wish for you to make it out alive.