you don’t bother asking about the scattered fingerprint bruises that color my inner thighs, or how I stumble home at dawn with tired red eyes. you don’t ask about the empty bottles lined up along my window seat, overlooking the view down our lonely grey street. you won’t mention the feathered scars that ladder my hips, or the dry cracking skin on my colorless lips.
and I never bother asking about the pink puncture marks over the veins inside your elbow, or how you cry in your sleep over someone who left you a long time ago. I don’t ask about the colorful pills you won’t let out of your sight, and how you swallow them dry just to feel all right. I won’t mention the tears you might let roll down your face, holding the gun you keep under your pillow just in case.
we never bother talking about the demons we share; maybe because we’re pretending that they aren’t really there. we’ve worn ourselves down to strangers somehow; I have memories of us, happy, but where are we now?
maybe we don’t bother to ask about each other’s personal hells because we know we’re just trying to save ourselves. or maybe we’re both just mourning the erosion of self that occurs when you’ve found you just can’t feel anything else.