In a room, overlooking a flat roof.

I'd like to know when I'll outgrow your nail beds,    
when my toes and feet and legs and hands will stop snaking
across ribs and cages and throats to swallow you whole.  
I'd like to know when  
I won't feel a danger to you.  
I feel as dangerous to you now as I did then.  
I feel as confident I'd cripple you with earnest,  
with a soul desperate as only desperate knows  
to sear itself to yours by any means, forged there, with brutality and force.
I'd like to know when that ferality ends.  
I'd like to know I could be a friend,
be a person needed, useful and appropriate -  
not this    
and not her then, something  
strong, slight, serious, sewn with care...  
 
yet
I suppose  
silence is how I save us now.