i have, to this day,
only seven scars,
which pale in comparison
to your white-scraped arms
the bumpy angry-red hills
of your biceps.

as we lie on your floor,
watching the ceiling fan spin like
twenty twirling ballerinas,
i think of your
little sister, and the ballet shoes
draped across her door.

your chest is hard like rocks,
heavy with more regret
than you could ever,
even on a good day,
throw away.

i smile and try not to cry
when you finally
close your eyes, and rest.