I wear my scars on my sleeve,
I suit them well,
Like your oversized jumper and
Skinny jeans, covered in
Fag burns and ash.
I wish someone would call
My tears beautiful just
One more time,
But I’m sure she’s perfect…
Clean. Smooth to the touch.
I’m sure she’ll smile at you
On those days I would have
Surrounded us in smoke-
Tasteless, harsh and heavy-
Ignoring the world and
Mistaking sadness for poetry,
Pretending we were only memories;
Lived, thought of and forgotten.