i rub out hearts with uneven edges, fingertips soft against cold glass.
the room fills with empty bottles and words i don't hear.
a cigarette burn on the carpet in a careless corner, i think of us, the night you press cigarette into your arm and i cry. have we always been like this? i pin the image of you to the wall, play it over with words and bruised emotions, scribble a heart on my wrist and run it over with blade.
i think i once loved you that way.

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