The Circus Children

Sometimes you cry in your sleep, like you're dreaming of a memory you'd rather forget. You touch my hips like they could break, and kiss my fingers when you're sad. I can't make you better; you're fucked for good. I like that you touch me like I'm delicate, like you're scared that your fingertips will rub away at my skin and muscle until all you're holding is bones. I wish that I could keep you, but you're a wildcat with jagged edges sharp enough to draw blood. No one can have you. Not even me.