​It’s 3 am and you’re picking at my paper edges, trying to conjure ghosts of love and grief working hard, wanting to fail. ​You don't know if running your fingers over me in those quick, haggard strokes is for the sake of comfort, or a need for control so small it fits in the ripping of a page. ​You wonder if you’ll ever be as vulnerable as to bare yourself naked to the mirror, pinching the places where it all went wrong. You wonder if it’s still vulnerability to know every part of you, every stage, before you decide to let someone in. ​How can you even let someone in, if you’re still banging on the doors of your own heart, begging your skin to let you back in?