What a burn love seems to have. Like a misplaced cigarette that just happens to fall onto the frail skin of your wrist. And you feel completely taken a back, worried that the sting will stay longer than you would have hoped for. And it does. And it burns. It burns down to your fucking veins and it opens you up into this oasis like nightmare of everything you never knew about yourself, all of the things inside your blood. You feel vulnerable. Everyone’s looking at your blood, telling you how you should clean up the mess you’ve made, how to get rid of the stains that have ruined your clothes and your sanity. You just wish that you had flicked that cigarette off of your wrist but you were just too damn intrigued by the flicker of the ashes. So was she.
A scar for everyone to see.