Teach me to
swim
in the
sound-waves
of your voice.

I can see myself
destroying
my own dignity,
popping it like
bubble-wrap
and watching as it
deflates
under my
forcible
fingertips.

Your hands fit
perfectly into my
skinny spaces
as if the
primary-school outline
of your palm
was drawn
just for me.

I want you to
pick something.
It can be anything:
integrity,
last Thursday,
your grandmother's
socks.
I don't care what it is
but I want you to
pick that something
out of all the
other somethings
and I want you to
believe in it,
I want you to
scrunch your eyes
up tight and
slow your breathing and
put all your energy
into that singular
belief.
And while you are
busy believing in that
something
I will believe
in you.

Porcelain angels
are delicate things
and darling,
you broke
your own wings.