They told me today
that you tried again.

I see you walking down the hall,
that somber expression on your face,
your blue eyes icier than usual
behind your glasses.

It's clinical, you say.
There's something wrong with me.
I'm different,
I'm defective,
I deserve to die.

I want to hold you close to my heart,
no matter how sharp your edges,
no matter how bloody my hands become,
cut by your jagged fragments.
I want to put you back together
with my own hands.

Piece by piece,
tear by tear,
putting your shattered being together
like a puzzle,
beside me in the dust.

I look into your glass,
spiderwebs cutting into the smoothness,
and I see