I'm filled with stretchmarks. So many you might think I could fall into one of them. It's like these cracks on my skin want to imitate what's going on in my heart.

My mom told me we could get laser done so they'll go away. She also doesn't really want to remember how broken I was, just like my skin. She always say'd it'd go away.

You also have stretchmarks, I suppose. But I can't picture you falling into them. I see you painting flowers on them and letting everyone kiss them. Kiss your wounds, but never anyone elses.

Maybe someday you'd want to see my stretchmarks, and maybe you'll help me paint flowers on them. Maybe with your voice, with your hands, with your words.

Or maybe just, just.