Broken

Broken

Over beers at the after-party I could hear the dark,
hear your scarred-up heart, the sharp. 
I knew you from the start. You threw your darts
and I caught them in my teeth, a superhero’s art.
You texted me when I was on the plane,
I recognized your game, went home and wrote
a late-night jetlagged note. Jumped right in
and asked the contours of your pain.
And so you came to my collection, 
dagger-edged selection of ill-considered loves,
people I’ve invited to my life too fast,
offered fealty to the last. Dan, via chat:
you just don’t go halfway on that. You.
You remind me of a dead man, fucked-up guy 
who took his leave while I was texting him,
preferred to die. But I saved a woman once, 
or so she claims. Did that wipe out the stain?
I do not want to stand again at the grave of a friend,
dead from hopelessness, addiction, misadventure,
conviction. And yet I pick you up, and do not
 put you down. I take that risk, cannot resist. 
The wormholes in your head resemble mine, 
we have both wanted to be dead. You may be
hard to bear, but you feel to me like home.
And if I must sing the blues, 
I will not do it all alone.

—amy isikoff newell, 2015