Bones

He sits with his knees to chest and chest to spine and spine to wall,
eyes rolled backward so he doesn’t have to see their faces.

"You are fine."
The words resonate off white-washed walls,
but reaching his ears they shriek with banshee chill.

"You are growing stronger."
He draws his heart with black charcoal on his bedframe,
nodding in agreement with fingers crossed behind spine.

His bones are shrinking.
He knows because he keeps a tape measure
in the drawer of his nightstand.

Telling no one,
he climbs onto the roof and does not cry,
but watches how the clouds obscure the moon.

"I'm coming."
He speaks aloud as if in daytime,
laying his skeletal remains back to bed where tomorrow they will find him.