Why is it everytime i write, it seems i'm writing about you? it's automatic. if i'm writing one of my wannabe "tortured, sad, poems" they're all directed to you. Your name is in my head constantly and everything goes back to the last day i saw you and to this picture i found of you recently online. I can still hear your voice when i go back to when i was 15 and you were 17. i can hear what you would tell me. SPEAK! i can smell your odor and can feel your warmth when you came to school just out of the shower, i can see how clean your face was. all i write comes back to you. my organs are meant for you. it doesn't take much for me to see your small wrists, small hands with your bitten nails, your chipped nail polish or wrongfully painted finger nails. these things are in my brain as if they had happened yesterday. the scar you told me you got by "falling of a bike" when i knew before i even asked you it wasn't true. i don't know if it was a cutter a calling a cutter but it was definitely something calling something. i don't know you if you were calling me or if i was calling you but there we were, comparing scars, like a game. i never cut myself so much in my lifetime as i did in those two months. our game of cutting seemed to be to see who was more tortured, more deep inside the dark, shallow hole called life. my cuts were always more dramatic, being longer and done with a shard of glass, your were deeper since you did them with a blade and more hidden. You would win..
-"scratch my name on your arm with a fountain pen.."
i've done that and i'd do more if you asked me to..
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