How much of you can I hold before there's none of me left

I know how you function
how your veins fill with something mean
when you see me with friends
you've never met
how you only ask
how I am
when I look happy and alive
but never when you read
the writings that I write
when I couldn't tell you that
I wanted you
to talk to me more
wanted you to ask me
what I wore today.
I know how you look at yourself
and skim all over parts of me
crooked into your elbow
shiny in your teeth
painful in your eyes
because when I brush my hair
and spit out blood
I think of you,
and that Richard siken poem
that you won't ever know about
because you skim your way
through this life
never stopping long enough to ask,
never stopping long enough for anyone to ask
what keeps you up at night?
are you hurting?
do you fall asleep thinking of
people who've become gods in your head?
so when you've skimmed this piece of writing through,
missing the details, as always,
may you get to the very end
at the very least,
to know that
I still care for you.