"My body is so gross I want to cry."
A friend's thoughts, like a stampede of spiders,
Crawl through my gut as I sit beside her.
I say "Not true!"" Stamp the bugs. But her eyes
Close with conviction. How can I do more?
Well, I do less. Listen — hear her cadence,
Embrace every word til we find valence.
Her eyes lift and we just sit on the floor.

She showed me a facet of trust more tender
Than blind belief in words' veracity.
To turn my ears away — how would I see?
If you place in my hands your secret grief,
I won't be repulsed, I won't run or flip,
But with upturned palms, so gently I'll grip.