When I look down at my left arm, I see six straight lines, one slightly in front of another. Hardly noticeable to the unaware eye, they appear to be nothing more than ordinary blemishes which seems to catch no ones attention but mine.
Each one representing a pain in the hollow of my chest so unbearable that my entire being becomes lifeless; numb.
The pain can give you the reassurance that you're still alive. But the pain isn't what I miss, it's the numbness.
Six straight lines; the last of their kind.
Though they are faint, the memories of them are not.

You broke my heart & scattered the pieces so that no one could find them; I think you may have even kept a piece for yourself.
Regardless, I keep finding you in between the lines of my writing and I can't decide if it's because I subconsciously want you, or need you.
I promised myself that I'd learn to live without you, but somehow you're the air in my lungs, & I'm choking on the thought of what we were.

He told me that my scars were beautiful,
and that he'd kiss every last one until they were faint.
He told me that he would hold me through all hours of the night,
only if it would make the darkness fade away.
He told me that I couldn't expect them to understand,
because he himself struggled to find the right words sometimes.
From the time I met him, told me that he'd be there forever,
and he was.