Axes, exits and you.

I watch you, on infrequent Thursday mornings, as silence and a chill wafts throughout the house, in through windows that need resealing. I watch you, soft blonde hair, deep shut lids, small toes and fingers and think, if I just behave myself, contain myself, swallow and reshape myself you can be a flourishing person and if
in doing all of those things you become a beautiful human, inside is all I want,
then my whole life, my Mother's mental-health, drug-addled life, her Mother's black and blue, don't face it, keeping up the Jones' life would have been worth it.
You must know, innocent thing, I love you,
more raw and rare and unique,
than any other I've loved all my life
and I'd give up anything for you
even my own predestined self destruction.