it isn’t enough; I can still see myself disappearing around myself, can’t you see it too and although charlie can see he wants to hold on, wants to—why am I not enough? he asks, holding bones’ bones, the slim taut figure, lovely grey-eyes why am I not and how can I be but bones looks only at the scale, slides the weights back and forth, back and forth, click-click-click

charlie knows there is no answer no talking even, no subject to talk of he looks at all of their ordinary spoons forks plates waiting on the drying rack all of it so futile, bones refusing happiness refusing dish towels and domesticity or maybe it is something within him refusing

there are no new drugs this time, just a breaking attempt at living and he was a fool to believe he was enough to keep bones from going into that mad lone place, from going wherever he can to keep his mind quiet. charlie says fine have it your way slams the cupboard door shut bones is always having everything his way