If I asked you how I tasted you would tell me "like her"

You would say that I smelled like roses and felt like their petals and you would tell me that my arms held the most beautiful scars

You would ask me if I remembered the time you were happy and I would tell you no, but I'd ask you to kiss me anyway and to pretend that my eyes were her own

I'd sing you to sleep and you would cry because you thought you loved nothing more, but now it's never quite right
(nothing was ever quite right)

You told me you loved how I touched you but I knew my fingers were not the fingers you longed for and when you told me you loved me you were speaking to someone else

You taste like stale cigarette smoke, self loathing and bitter sadness and I want you know that I have always tasted the same