Right There

One day,
they’re going to wake up,
to the wounds of

you

the scars,
the scratches,
the scabs,
that all wear your name proudly.

Because they let you bleed through.
They didn’t listen and
you knew you couldn’t get them to.
But you would’ve stayed,
bedside,
until they stood again,
walked again,
made it through
whatever fire
was burning them from the inside

out.

But instead,
they blame
the way their stitches
spell out your initials
and their crutches
bend like your bones,
and their IVs drip like your eyes
because it always was,

but never when they wanted,

you.

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