You want him bruise blue, trapped between your legs. Fingers in your mouth, saying, all I ever wanted was a place to go home to. You're nodding like you care. This boy has hope. Has this ever happened before? Not in this story. You touch his face like you're touching a daisy: you want to pull everything apart outside of it. This is the funny part- he has hope. Hope-hope-hope-hope-hope, your boy hopes for everything. It's untouchable. He says when I am old, baby. When I am old, am old, am old. That, in itself is hope for you.

You won't tell him about your blood count, the wars you wage inside your own veins. You want him to hope. Isn't that cruel? Of course, but this is your story and you want him happy, want him stuck behind your ribcage, clenched between your teeth, this awful thing of Hope throbbing in his chest. You want to stay. You want home. Forgiveness and daisies, but he gives you lilies like you're already dead. He sees you in the hospital and you hate that. He's choking and grabbing at the space beside your hand saying you should've told me, and maybe he still hopes? Maybe you've killed that too.

You want to tell him about the other boy, how you let him inside you and he tore you apart. You want to tell him that can't happen this time and he's crying and saying something about hope again, and you almost want to hit him like this. The doctors don't give you hope. The doctors give you six months to live and pills, look a little to the left of your eyes and say I'm sorry. Did god invent AIDS? Does he want you dead so much? You've been dying your entire life. This is what you came here for. There's a boy at your side, not crying. Determinedly not crying. Do you know him? Maybe he should cry. Face like a daisy. You're remembering his hands, his hands- your binary gods, these hands that hoped and you're remembering how they were once the only place in the world for you. He says he wants to go home.

You wish he hadn't stopped hoping.