I remember black leather billowing in the wind. And scrawny wrists with veins threatening to explode against the soft touch of metal. I remember statistics on the back of toilet doors from before my feet could touch the floor. With the light off my thoughts are not caged in. I was always afraid of the dark as a kid, did you notice?
Floors of metal under my toes.
I leave bits of myself everywhere. A reusable cup on your bedside table, frothy with hot chocolate kisses. A hoodie worn so often it no longer felt like mine. A stain on your bedsheets, every bodies bedsheets. A pair of long socks, worn on cold days underneath my jeans. My trust, somewhere in your drawers with your socks and pants. A phone with credit still on it.
Collections of hair in the shower, keeping a safe distance from the plug hole. The water burns away my skin, but I’m not ready to get dressed.
Do you remember tasting my salty tears? I remember running over glass.
Picture Source: Pinterest