i wish i could punch kick thrash and scream like i never have— deprived of the catharsis of rebellion
daydreaming about buying a can of spray paint and tagging train cars— but too afraid
sometimes the knife doesn’t cut thick enough to leave a scar forever. sometimes you can see it start to fade on it’s own.
sometimes you can still barely see it— can you still call it a scar when eventually it will go?
permanent scars from less— a large thin line from a dog with long nails who was happy to see me
is that real love?


















