You used to tell me
"Every scar has an excuse,
and every excuse has a story."
We fucked in a book store bathroom,
then again on a pick nick table,
You held my hair from my ear and whispered,
"Please let me love you, we can do this together"
Three days later you died in my lap.
In your wallet was a picture of us,
and enough to buy two points,
and a rose for your grave.
Today I sit here, thinking of you,
looking down on spoiled veins wrapped in broken skin,
all held together with safety pins and dollar store nail polish,
and I say,
"Every scar has an excuse,
and every excuse has a story."
but it will always sound better when you say it.