My Closest Friend, Ana.

You saw me before I saw you.
I was tugging at the ends of my sweater
Trying to cover my fingertips to stay warm
And you were standing there
On the street corner a block away
Building up the courage to come over to me.
Your voice was betraying you
It shook as you offered your first hello
Your cheeks turned rosy, and flushed
But I still felt cold.
You insisted I sit next to you
On the couch about a month later 
And laughed when my hip poked yours
Only to hold my bones even closer to you
But I hate being close.
The next year, you kissed me.
I even felt your breath on my cheek 
As you whispered words to me I didn’t know
You smiled as you said them,
I didn’t notice, though.
For a time, you touched me
In every way considered “loving”
Even though I have never once bruised slow
I always justified you,
But we both should have known.
And I cannot help it
That every time your fingers caress my bones
I am terrified of what you think of me.
Despite the heartfelt things you say,
I will never hear a thing

Guide that inspired this poem: 

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