Your name is imprinted in my mouth, under my tongue and scraping down my lungs, your fingertips are finding holes in my body that other people have left, and you have a piece of string and you're trying to stitch me back together, sewing the holes shut, kissing my scars that, if they ever reopen, and i swear it would be an accident, they would bleed your name. And your nails have left a mark on my back, as if by digging in hard enough, you could make art on a canvas made of skin and I don't think you know this, but, by sewing the holes shut, you wrapped the broken bones in my body back up, I remember when I tried to glue my bones back together with glue that never actually worked, and I never tried stitching them up like you did. I like to imagine you made a row of ribbons along my ribcage that spell out your name. And someday, maybe these broken bones will be fixed, with cracks along every single one of them that scream your name like the air in my lungs do, and I guess that's okay.