I wouldn't call them scars. Our bodies are ancient calendars marked with times and places. Tonight, you are not real. You are the desperate ocean lapping at the shoreline trying to take back the secrets in the bottles cast off by lovers, and children, letters to the dead sometimes. They are not your secrets, but they came to you first. They are full of feelings you have once felt or will feel. The bottles glisten in the sand mockingly, beautifully, painfully, like window shopping for jewelry you'll never be able to afford. You never expect to want the glass back after it has been pulled out of you. But the stories inside are your stories now too. You cast them off in the same manner hoping somone better than the sea will find them. The story about your cancer, your mother, the love you feel right now, the love returned, the time you thought of the beauty of a flower, the flower you killed to show someone how beautiful it was, the realization of the importance of stillness. All those stories like broken bottles in your skin. Like jewels encrusted on a big brass door leading to a room you live in. But tonight, you are the ocean at high tide, finally getting your bottles back.

You haven't told me your life story because I think you're afraid I'll notice the suicides which may or may not line your arms
Your neck
Which really needs to be kissed more by someone who'll at least admire the bruises
It's good to see you're branded by something you can enjoy
Why you let Them make you regret it is something I cannot understand
I won't allow it
Why you won't let me in is something I'll always understand
I don't want to
Your walls have been standing for too long because of things that happened so quickly
I am sorry I'm another addition to the ashlar
I wish there was a hole in the brick marked by my name and hair which still gets in your mouth
I'm glad to see you're not angry
I'm glad to see you were

The stains on my phone screen spell out your name when prompted
You make the smudges worth a smile

The dictionary does not list Technicolor as an adjective
It should

You have dominated the creative process of every video game in recent memory
How does it feel to mount dragons, **** them, be them?

The coat you gave me should remind me of Cobain and the CDs which grooves are ingrained in my mind
Why does it only remind me of you?

You could convince me to pick up rat poison
If it meant enjoying the high with you

I would stay on the roundabout, always turning
If it meant you could enjoy the stillness
My arms in their circular pattern
And forget about hating yourself until the tires blew

Fam

this world still needs you,
every
last
drop.
the dreams you dream while the sun still shines
the bits of string that get tangled in your hair
your awkward smile when someone says you're beautiful.
every thing that i remember and the ones that i can't,
the things that i don't know now that we're older.

don't give up.

Sometimes, I believe you were conceived in the womb of *Aphrodite
the subtle migrations of your mouth and tongue
manipulating my body in ways
that would make a courtesan blush

let me worship at the altar between your thighs

Sometimes, I think you are a descendant of Moses
your fingertips guiding me into warm places
your thighs and valleys so divine
I can't help but get lost in them

your lips and hidden places always causing exodus

Sometimes, I imagine you as a rose
your petals opening gracefully for select eyes
beautiful, in your surrender
your thorns, a barrier to most, yet

I would brave them, just to drink the dew from between your buds

Sometimes, I just need to know that you're mine
nothing more & nothing less than what  **you are