She had scars on her arm.
I had scars on my heart.
Ironically, it was cuts that tore us apart.
I couldn’t seem to suture, instead, I could only feed her words that would travel through her.
They said to turn to God, well he abandoned me.
Now who’s the fraud?
Even after all my hand-me-down clothes, I’m still not holy.
I wouldn’t worry.
What once was my inspiration, lies at the bottom of my own desperation.
I can’t help but feel as if I’m stuck having lonely drinks at the bar I set too high for myself.
I grow tired, maybe I should give up.
Call it good health.
Even if not… But shit, still.
I’ll be stuck counting teardrops on the windowsill.