reasons I hide the weapons when you get out the bottleMature

It is the middle of the night
and I’ve found you in the kitchen
with the melon baller again,
your arm spotted with bright red circles.
We sit on the porch smoking cigarettes
and do not talk. 
There are a million things I could tell you - 
at least fifteen percent of them ways to tell you that 
you don’t have to carve pieces of yourself out
in order to let yourself grow, that you only need
six inches of water to drown, that sunlight
can kill you just like everything else, but
you don’t have to want it all to, you don’t
have to hunt down oblivion - but instead,
we blow smoke rings up at the moon
and do not talk.
Tomorrow, this will all have passed and
I’ll be the only one who remembers.
You’ll call me in the morning and ask
if you really smoked three packs of cigarettes and
you’ll laugh like it’s the worst thing you could have done.
Somehow we have grown in such a place that
our roots have begun to touch, like our fingers sometimes do,
but we do not talk.

The End

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