and I do nothing about it. When I dropped a box of dried spaghetti in their tank, they were thrilled for the touch. I watch them be brothers in their own orbits, bearing witness to the other without the vulgarity of contact. I call them the boys, and the boys settle in their tank, bodies cozy with wretched water, wretched walls. We don’t do well, but we do—the three of us, digging into the outer coppices of damage, but never enough for revelation. Bone bruise after bone bruise, the world praises our resilience, despite what chews away at us. A doctor tells me how lovely my body parts are each time I am afraid I have ruined one. I can’t explain the many years I tried to break this resilience—with each slip and tackle I seemed to be too tough to care for, built right to stare ruin in the face. I saw ruin and wanted to be it, wanted a ligament torn enough to deserve it, bludgeoned against a simple desire for the upset. For completion. From bruises to shinbone ladder scars to powder and purge, some cloud of metal exists inside me, surely its own reckless vessel. Something final must happen. Even in death it will take a fire to break me down. And even then, I will fall—resilient—like rain.