The Shoulders

I don't know how I spent them,
       those days away,
nor the amount gained
       these nights out.
Afternoons
         and evenings
jingled in my pockets
      like loose change,
    too many variables
              to name
       with some little letter
                    like i
         or u
                   or y.
I sag to an i or y,
       cutting new notches
     in my belt line
              each morning,
contemplating
          my skeletal waist
   shrinking
          like the difference
      between i and y,
the product of u and i
           divided by y,
   checked then rechecked
      on the broken abacus
   I keep in my mind.

       Somewhere, a bead fell.

There's a rattling
       that crawls
    under the polished
         floorboards of each
swift
        or steady
                        answer,
rolling
           from
                      ear
           to
ear
      till the groove is set,
      and there is not room
      for second chances
      or first mistakes.
For months,
         I haven't moved
                   an inch,
   fearing vertigo
        in a yes or no.
When the answer came,
         I felt shame for my tears
and shame that I didn't have more.

        But somewhere a straw broke.

Where I went
         or where I go
              I just don't know,
but some nights
          my reflection
    comes staggering home,
               unrecognized,
but always in time
       for our ritual staring contest
where I try to tell
          what he's thinking
     from the corners
               of my eyelids
but sometimes,
          sometimes I swear
   he sneaks a peek back
      and wonders the same.
And I don't know how
          to calculate
       the distance
    between him and I,
but I've seen him dance
         on the edge
of every precipice
       and I felt the nausea
   of a final step
          towards yes and no.

      Somewhere, a foot slips.

Look, no one cuts their wrists
         just trying to end it all.
  The ones that actually do
      spent too many nights
         bent on calloused knees,
    pleading the unturned doorhandle,
          practicing what they'd say
               with razor blades.
 No, they went all in
         on a bet
    that somewhere,
              someone
would walk in on them doing it,
      and for those few moments
             when everyone cares
the shoulders would come
             to tell them,
     "it's alright to cry."