We swore to ourselves
That we were our own heartache
Our own architect,
Author,
Artist,
But the story we wrote for ourselves
Didn't reflect our freedom
Our freedom that we enjoyed in our eyes

And we collected our souvenirs
Our bruises and broken bones
Our cuts we washed in salt
So that their comfort could never leave us
Like an over protective mother
Whose presence we would start to be repulsed by
Once we realised we were not children anymore.
And we would scrub at the scars
With sandpaper
And try to burn them from our skin
With nail varnish and our smouldering cigarette ends.