I see you, you know. When you're trying to fade into the background in a crowded room looking at the clock every couple of minutes, trying to figure out when would be the polite time to leave, I see you.
I know that the marks on your forearm are not from the accident in January but from far far before that and that every time you see a knife, a blade, or anything really sharp, you feel the need to test the strength against your skin. I know that last weekend when you said you had plans, you had been curled up in your blanket trying to find the strength to get up.
I know that every time I come too close, you have this inexplicable urge to run in the opposite direction.
Every time someone brings up suicide and someone else says only weak people go through with it, I feel you shrink within yourself.
I know when you make bland jokes about people who say no one gets them, you're crying out, and when I hold your hand right then, I know you're trying to ignore the impulse to squeeze mine a little tighter.
I know you're trying. I know you've been fighting this for so long, you can't remember how it was before. I can feel you slip away every time we're in a crowded room and you start looking at the clock again.
I know all of that and I know this. I know you can't give me all parts of you but any part that you'll give me I'll take and I'll build you a haven where you won't be counting your minutes. I'll be here when you feel that you're too tired to get up from the bed and I'll hold on to you tighter because I know you would push back then.
I'll be your anchor every time you want to give in to that voice in your head. And I'll throw out all the mirrors if you don't want to look at them.
I'll use plastic cutlery if it means not having to see you in a corner with a knife at your wrist. And every time you feel the need to run, I'll tie my shoelaces and yours.
I'm not going anywhere.