One more day.

I read somewhere 

how it hurts 

to love someone 

who couldn't love themselves. 

It's like watching a work of art

set itself on fire. 

So when I listen to you

tell me how badly you

wanted to stop breathing,

how your skin 

felt like a costume,

how your voice sometimes 

wasn't yours,

how deeply you

hated your existence,

my heart broke 

into a million pieces. 

Loving you is like watching 

a cathedral

collapse from within

each stained-glass window

shattering in slow motion.

I want to tether you

to this life

with something softer than guilt—

with stillness.

With care.

I wish I could 

convince you to stay.

I wish you could 

see it in my eyes 

when I looked at yours

that what I felt for you

was more than affection.

I would burn myself 

just to keep you warm. 

I will remain desperately hopeful

that you'll one day see yourself 

the way I see you.

And if I can't will you to stay,

then let me love you

into trying 

for one more day.

Just one more day.

And I'll be here,

loving you

for one more day.