Because you mean something

You ask me what are these secrets that are pressed onto my skin. They aren't legible, these scars are a messy cursive, a secretary's notes about a bruised body with a tortured soul. Each breath that I take is another synonym for broken. And I try hard not to, but I keep staining everyone I meet with an empty presence. Life chipped away at my insides until finally there was nothing left. You'll keep asking me to try, even though I can't give you anything to hold. Because there is a discomfort between myself and the rest of the world. This distrustful energy keeps me from renewing my faith in people, in everything. Even the very air that I breathe, it is poisoned and I don't know how to keep it from killing me slowly. I probably want it to, let it fill these black lungs with the ashes of every unfinished poem I've thrown into my wild fire, fill them until they overflow if you'd like, until I'm drowing in my own smoke. But as long as you're here... I guess, stay a while, then I can cling to your energy and rest my head on it, it'll be the first time I've slept in weeks. Do you really want this? I'm almost too sharp around the edges. Let me untangle these skeletal fingers. And force them to free your heart from their grasp before I leave my splinters on your skin. Please understand you are a life I never want to scar.