I would die for you, but never for your bones.
Your fingertips rest lightly on the table—whether
they are about to reach for my hand or my throat,
I cannot know. I cannot know anything about you,
only the flaxen smoothness of your hair as it drags
across your back. If you were to ever end your life,
I trust you would become another Porphyria.
Here in this whitewashed room, the teacups rattle
with every rumble of the earth beneath us.
You pray to your gods of stillness, and I watch.
You look me in the eyes. I press my hand against
my heart. Don’t let them near me again.