As soon as you set that cracked teacup
atop the butterfly display case
and that unholy resonance of porcelain and acrylic
held the briefest of folded moments, I knew
you were for the fall.
This always made you uncomfortable
in your clothes and underneath.
It was the reason for your headaches,
it was why you never finished anything
and the justification for your drinking.
But I couldn't help it anymore than you
could stop yourself from cutting me down,
cutting me out
until I was a paper doll begrudgingly holding back
half the pages
in a book too heavy to take off the shelf
with any care or consistency.
The dusty outline of us
left on the chipped plaster
of a heaving wall, sagging
under the weight of everything
is not all that's left.
It's just the main thing people notice
when they first pull off the wings.