take me to Bukowski's grave,
we can drink,
and talk about our past lovers
who left bad tastes in our mouths.
The ones who's clumsy hands,
left bruises on our,
fragile bodies,
we were treated so badly,
we did not deserve
any of the sadness
we did not deserve,
what we felt.
we poked needles
into our skin,
and injected unworthy people,
into our veins.
we were not whole.
we gave lovers parts of us,
we needed to keep.
parts of ourselves,
we thought we could never
get back
and then,
we
met
each
other.
and with you,
i am whole.