The vertical lines that run down his forearms are the most disturbing, thick and jagged as if someone took a razor to his skin. I wish I could run my fingers along them and remove the pain and memories that are attached to them.

There are no accusations with writing, no judgment, no shame, only freedom.

I fall down and my palms split open against the gravel. Injuries on the outside are easy to endure and I get up without hesitation.

Pretend all you want, pretty girl. You and I know that deep down you’re secretly glad to be pressed up to my body.

People say that time heals all wounds, and maybe they're right. But whit if the wounds don't heal correctly, like when cuts leave behind nasty scars, or when broken bones mend together, but aren't as smooth anymore? Does it mean they're really healed? Or is it that the body did what it could to fix what broke.

Maybe if I try hard enough, we'll fall into each other and become one single person and we can share our pain instead of carrying it by ourselves.

No. I just never wanted to throw them away. Even if they were broken. I still loved them.